


Bucketlist

by patchfire, raving_liberal



Category: Glee
Genre: Action, Caper Fic, Dark Comedy, Heist, Kleak-up, M/M, Mormons, Puckurt Big Bang, Puckurt Big Bang 2013
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-21
Updated: 2013-07-21
Packaged: 2017-12-20 22:15:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 41,812
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/892518
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/patchfire/pseuds/patchfire, https://archiveofourown.org/users/raving_liberal/pseuds/raving_liberal
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Noah Puckerman was just the guy who made the deliveries, toting who-knows-what in a bucket of pool chemicals. When bullets start flying at a routine hand-off, Puck takes the bucket and runs, enlisting Kurt as his unwitting accomplice in a search for a way out of a seemingly no-win situation. Now Puck and Kurt are running for their lives, dodging gangsters and feds, crossing out names on a list of the Midwest’s vagrants, and living by one simple rule: whatever you do, don’t open the bucket.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bucketlist

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the [Puckurt Big Bang 2013](http://puckurtbigbang.livejournal.com/). 
> 
> Beta read by the inimitable **david_of_oz** and the delightful **separatrix**. 
> 
> **Bucketlist** art by [cat_eats_apple](http://cat_eats_apple.livejournal.com). 
> 
> The downloadable playlist for **Bucketlist** can be found [here](https://www.dropbox.com/s/mpb6jx2tfg4c9og/Bucketlist.zip) (cover by [cat_eats_apple](http://cat_eats_apple.livejournal.com)).

Somewhere between the moment when Julio’s body hits the ground and the moment when a bullet whizzes just past Puck’s ear as he’s high-tailing it out of there, Puck thinks to himself that maybe it’s time for him to reevaluate some of his life choices. Lima has to offer at least a few money-making opportunities that don’t involve firearms, after all, and perhaps even career options that don’t end with Puck running for his life while lugging a hundred-pound bucket labeled ‘pool chemicals’ that obviously doesn’t actually contain pool chemicals. Maybe even one, he muses as he flings himself and the bucket into his truck, that he could report on his 1099 form.

Puck’s truck sputters once, then catches and roars, and he thinks that the exhaust issue, which people complain to him about sometimes, is probably working in his favor this time. He drives straight to Jimmy’s trailer and parks, grabbing the bucket and heading to the door. Puck bangs on the screen door. “Jimmy!” he yells. “Jimmy, tell me what the hell’s going on!” 

“Hold your horses,” Jimmy shouts back through the door. Puck can hear a chair or some other piece of furniture being dragged before Jimmy opens the trailer door, standing there behind the screen door in a pair of saggy boxer shorts and a robe that looks like it’s seen better decades. “Puckerman?”

“I don’t ask questions,” Puck says. “I don’t ask questions, I take the cash, and everyone’s happy. But I just watched Julio get shot, and I almost got shot, all over this.” He lifts the bucket. “So, like I said, what the _hell_?”

Jimmy glances down at the bucket and his eyes widen. “Whoa! Whoa! What’re you doing bringing that thing here? Are you out of your fucking mind?” Jimmy pushes the screen door open part of the way and looks up and down the street. “You get followed?”

Puck snorts. “No. And I couldn’t exactly give it to dead Julio, now could I?”

“That’s a whole lotta your problem, a not even a little bit of my problem,” Jimmy says, shutting and locking the screen door. “You’ve gotta get rid of it on your own.”

“I need answers, Jimmy. Give me a name, a street number, something.”

At the far end of the trailer park, tires screech, and Jimmy looks even more twitchy than usual. “Just hang on a second,” he says. The trailer door closes for a few seconds, then opens again, Jimmy now holding a notepad and a pen. He quickly scribbles something on the pad, rips off the sheet of paper and folds it until a tiny square, which he shoves through a rip in the screen. “That’s all I can do, man. And whatever you do, _don’t_ open that bucket!”

With that, Jimmy slams the trailer door. Puck shoves the square of paper into his front pocket and hits the doorframe. “Jimmy, c’mon, can’t you tell me anything else? Like how to get rid of it?” He wrenches the screen door open with some effort, then tries the handle. It is locked, and Puck frowns, looking around him. A good kick would probably break the lock and open the door, but Puck’s already been shot at once, and he has no idea if Jimmy would shoot him over a broken door. He pulls out his ATM card instead and after a few seconds of work, the door creaks as he pushes it open. 

“Jimmy?” Puck calls, but he doesn’t hear a response. He doesn’t hear any movement, either, and he walks through the small trailer quickly, then groans. Jimmy’s gone completely, which means the only thing Puck has that is even remotely helpful is the piece of paper. There’s not even anything helpful in Jimmy’s trailer that he could take with him, because Puck does not need the fake plastic bass on the wall. When he walks past it to leave, though, it starts screaming out “Take me to the river! Drop me in the water!” and Puck jumps. 

“Stupid fucking fake fish,” Puck mutters, slamming the door to Jimmy’s trailer behind him. He may have told Jimmy he wasn’t followed, but he actually hadn’t paid any attention to it, and when he leaves the trailer park, a black car is behind him. There’s lots of older black cars in Lima and the surrounding area, though, so that doesn’t tell Puck anything. 

He decides to go find Finn. First of all, Finn’s his best friend, and what are best friends for if not support on a day that you’ve been shot at, and secondly, Finn’s a much bigger target. If one of them accidentally takes a bullet, Finn’s got a much better chance of it hitting something that isn’t vital. 

The same black car follows him into Lima, and Puck decides to stop for a pop at the gas station. Mostly because he’s thirsty, but a little bit to see if the black car is following him or just coincidence. The black car doesn’t stop, but three blocks past the gas station, it turns off the side street to get behind him again. 

“Son of a bitch,” Puck says to himself. “What could be in that thing?” He glares at the bucket as he starts trying to throw the black car off of him. It’s one thing to find Finn and get some help, but it’s another to lead the guys with guns straight to Finn. Puck finally gets some luck twenty minutes later when he zooms through a yellow light, and one of Lima’s finest is sitting on the cross-street, which means the black car has to stop when it turns red. Puck makes a few more turns and heads for Finn’s house as quickly as he can after that. The bucket comes with him, but he doesn’t bother to lock the door on his truck. If he’s really lucky, some kid will steal it and lead the black car in the wrong direction. 

Puck starts ringing the doorbell like he always does, grinning to himself. “Hey, Finn!” he calls over the doorbell. Nobody comes to the door at first, and Puck is about to give up and leave when the door opens.

“Finn’s not here, Puck,” Kurt says. He has a towel on his hair and his T-shirt looks damp.

“Shit.” Puck narrows his eyes. “Were you in the shower or something?”

“No, Puck,” Kurt says flatly. “I always wear a towel on my head.” He looks Puck up and down, narrowing his eyes. “Why do you have a bucket of pool chemicals? We don’t have a pool.”

“Can I come in?” Puck looks behind him and then down the street. “I think I lost the guy, but seriously, I’d rather be behind a door. And a deadbolt. Does your dad have a gun?”

“ _What?_ ” Kurt squawks. “No! And… and no, you can’t come in here!” Kurt leans out the door around Puck and also looks down the street. “Are you evading the police?”

“No!” Puck insists. “C’mon, Kurt, please? The guy followed me! And… and I don’t know what’s in the bucket.”

Kurt sighs. “Fine. You can sit down in the kitchen. Take off your shoes when you come in, please. They’re covered in mud.”

“Yeah, Jimmy’s driveway isn’t paved,” Puck says, walking in with another look over his shoulder. He toes his shoes off, then decides to be sure Kurt doesn’t get upset about dirt, and takes off his socks, too, turning up the ends of his jeans. “Good enough?”

Kurt nods as he turns and walks towards the stairs. “Wait in the kitchen. Get yourself something to drink if you want. I have to finish my hair.”

“Yeah, okay,” Puck agrees, going into the kitchen and helping himself to a pop. He wants to grab one of the light beers in the back of the refrigerator, but he decides to ask about that later. For now, he just wants to stop driving for a bit. 

Puck finishes the can of pop while Kurt is still upstairs, so he crushes it in his hand and tosses it in the recycling just as he finally hears Kurt coming back down the stairs. His hair is done, and he’s wearing a completely different outfit, one that vaguely makes Puck think of April. That makes him think of April Fools’ Day, and then he remembers that the bucket isn’t exactly a prank. 

“Alright, let’s get this all straightened out,” Kurt says, sitting down at the kitchen table. “You have a bucket of pool chemicals that may or may not actually contain pool chemicals, you’re being followed by some unknown entity, and you believe the situation may require a gun. Do I have the details correct so far?”

“Pretty sure it doesn’t have pool chemicals,” Puck admits, “and I’ve already been shot at once. Other than that, yeah.”

“What did you do?” Kurt asks.

“I was just taking the bucket!” Puck protests. “Just like always. I get the bucket from Jimmy, make sure I keep track of which one it is, and then I leave it at another house, like I’ve accidentally forgotten it. That’s all. That’s all I have to do.”

“That doesn’t sound even the slightest bit shady,” Kurt says. “What’s usually in the buckets? Is it drugs?”

Puck shrugs. “Never opened one. That’s the rule, don’t open the bucket.”

“And you’re being paid to do this, I assume?”

“Five hundred a bucket. One bucket every two weeks, give or take.” Puck crosses his arms over his chest. “It’s a lot of money.”

Kurt frowns. “Who is the money coming from?” 

“How should I know? I mean, I get my share from Jimmy. Gives mine to me in an envelope, cash. But I don’t know where he gets it.” Puck pats his front pocket just long enough to feel that the square of paper is still there. 

“So you don’t know what’s in the buckets, and you don’t know who’s picking them up, and you don’t know where the money comes from?” Kurt shakes his head. “Puck, no offense, but that’s beyond your normal level of bad ideas. How did you get roped into something like this?”

“Hey.” Puck recrosses his arms. “And Julio approached me. Rest in peace or whatever, Julio. It’s a lot of money, Kurt. A lot more than I could earn any other way. It’s not like there’s a bunch of multimillionaires with pools in Lima.”

“There are other ways to earn money besides cleaning pools,” Kurt points out. “Aren’t you worried about getting arrested? Or, apparently, shot?”

“Not until today! And none that pay a thousand bucks a month.” Puck looks out the window, even though he can’t see the road or his truck from it. “I don’t think the cops are involved.”

“Then maybe they need to be,” Kurt says.

“ _Now_ I’m worried about getting arrested!” Puck says. “Here.” He digs in his pocket and pulls out the piece of paper. “This is all I’ve got, now. This and the damn bucket. I went to Jimmy’s and he just disappeared, after he gave me this.” He puts the paper on the table and stares at it. 

“What’s that supposed to be?” Kurt asks. He reaches out for the paper and unfolds it, frowning again. “Puck, this is just a list of names. I think they’re names, at least. What kind of a name is Neck. Sorry, _The_ Neck. And Jorge Ruiz? That skeezy used car dealer over near the train yard?”

“Huh? Neck?” Puck shrugs. “I asked him for names or something. I don’t know what’s in the bucket, so I don’t know how to get rid of it. Plus since I didn’t get rid of it, maybe they’ll pay me even more for getting it to them. Whoever they are.”

“I really think you should call the police. You’ve been shot at! You’re clearly involved in some kind of illegal operation that’s going to get you killed,” Kurt says. “Wait. Did you come over here to rope Finn into this?”

“He’s my best friend,” Puck says, trying to sound insulted. “And… okay, he’s also a larger target. But I still can’t call the police!”

“Noah Puckerman!” Kurt shrieks at him. “I cannot believe you tried to use Finn as your human shield! This is low, even for you.” He stands up, face set into a scowl and hands on his hips. “That’s it. I’m calling the police right now.”

“No! You can’t do that! Shit, Kurt, I’m eighteen now, and they won’t _care_ that I didn’t know what was in the bucket.” Puck stands up, too, though he’s not really sure that’ll do any good, if Kurt has his phone in his pocket or something. “And not all of him! Just the non-vital parts!”

“Oh my God!” Kurt throws his hands up into the air. “You’re insane, did you know that? Just go! Get out of my house and take your bucket of whatever with you!”

“I can’t!” Puck says. “This guy in the black car followed me. He knows my truck. I just want to get rid of the bucket. And get paid.”

“I can’t believe you led them to _my_ house of all places!” Kurt takes a step towards Puck and reaches for the bucket. “Maybe if we just throw it out into the street—”

“No,” Puck interrupts quickly. “That’s probably not a good idea. And, y’know, it’s not like I realized you’d be the only one home, dude.”

“Oh, so you were just going to use my brother as a human shield _and_ lead men with guns to my house, all while, what? Were you hoping Carole would bake you something? Maybe my dad would do some work on your car while you were here?” 

“Hey!” Noah scowls at Kurt. “I just thought I’d ask for some advice. Advice that wasn’t ‘get yourself arrested’. You know what? Screw you. I’m not a fucking mooch.”

“Fine! I don’t want that thing in my house, anyway!”

“Oh, no, I wouldn’t want to take anything from your house,” Puck says mockingly. “I’ll leave you the bucket, and to prove to you I’m not mooching, you can even keep half of the money when you deliver it.”

“I’m not touching that thing! Then when the cops come, it’ll be easy to tell by the prints who it belongs to!”

Puck chuckles. “It’s in your house, dude. Your dad’s house, really. Congressman Hummel.” Puck glares at Kurt. “You don’t have to be so shitty. I just— look, I started doing it back in the fall.”

“Why would you— oh.” Kurt freezes in the middle of what looks like another tirade he was planning on launching into. “Was it because of…”

“Yeah.” Puck nods once. “Then I started putting it all between my mattress and the box spring. So I can get out of here.”

Kurt sighs once again, even more dramatically this time. “Fine. I won’t call the police. So what do you plan to do now?”

“Let me look at the list.” Puck puts his hand out. “Somebody on there should know. Didn’t you say one of them has a used car place?”

“Yes, Jorge Ruiz,” Kurt says. “He owns Ruiz & Sons Used Auto, out near the train yard. Dad gets a lot of cars coming in that the owners bought at that place. They’re junkers, for the most part.”

“Okay, so.” Puck stops and thinks. “Okay, _now_ I am asking for a favor. Can I borrow your car? I’ll gas it up before I bring it back.”

“I’m sorry. I didn’t understand what you just said. You must have been speaking in tongues,” Kurt says. He raises one eyebrow at Puck. “Because I can’t imagine you’d actually be asking to borrow my car for your illegal bucket activities.”

“Okay, well, hmm.” Puck crosses his arms. “Okay, _you_ drive, and I’ll sit in the passenger seat, and on the way back, you can stop at that bakery and I’ll get you cheesecake. I heard you like cheesecake.”

Kurt appears to consider Puck’s offer, tapping his finger to his chin a few times while he makes a quiet humming noise. “Is that bucket sealed?” Kurt asks. “Factory-sealed, I mean.”

Puck shrugs. “It looks like it. I’ve never tested one of them.”

“I don’t want anything spilling on my upholstery.”

“Hey, we could put it in a garbage bag. You got those black ones? That’d be better anyway, in case someone looked in the windows.”

“Under the sink, yes,” Kurt says, gesturing towards the cabinet below the sink. “And you’ll get me cheesecake _and_ gas up my car.”

“Gas and cheesecake,” Puck repeats, walking over to the sink and pulling out a black garbage bag. He opens it up, sticks the bucket inside, and then before closing the cabinet, decides to get a second bag. The day’s already been pretty strange, so having an extra garbage bag doesn’t seem all that weird, in the end. 

“Just don’t make me regret this,” Kurt says. 

“Kurt, I kinda regret getting up this morning.”

“Fair enough.” Kurt picks up a set of keys and starts walking out of the kitchen. “Let’s go ahead and get this over with before my parents come home and you have to explain it to them.”

Puck picks up the bucket-containing garbage bag, and puts the list back in his pocket. “Sounds fair enough,” he agrees. “You want a hot dog on the way? What with all the excitement of getting shot at, I forgot about lunch.”

“You can’t eat in my car,” Kurt says. He keeps walking past the front door, where he waves his hand in the direction of Puck’s shoes. “And carry those so you don’t track mud on my floorboards.”

Puck rolls his eyes. “Okay, I’ll lean on the door and eat the damn hot dog, then.” He picks up his shoes, then bangs them on the ground a few times once he gets outside. 

“I think you can wait until after the car dealership to eat the hot dog.”

“Okay. I like a little break between my food and dessert, is why I suggested before.” Puck shrugs. 

Kurt looks back over his shoulder at Puck. “Can we just get this over with before the men with guns come back?”

“Kinda hoping they don’t come back at all, but yeah.” Puck bangs his shoes on the ground another time, then holds up the garbage bag questioningly. “Back seat, or very back?”

“Back, so it’s close enough to reach if you have to.”

“So I can, what? Throw it at ol’ Jorge?” Puck asks, but he does put it where instructed. “Maybe I should hit him with it, if he’s selling cars under, what’s the thing they call it. False whatever.”

“Maybe so,” Kurt agrees. Once they’re both in the car, he adds, “Seatbelt.”

“And here I was hoping to either take a header through your windshield or get pulled over by the very cops I’d like to avoid,” Puck says wryly. 

“Well, forgive me! It’s almost like I’m the one doing you a favor here!” Kurt says. He backs out of the driveway, making the turn onto the road a little more sharply than the turn probably calls for. “Now, when we get to Ruiz & Sons, you should let me talk to Jorge. You can sneak the bucket onto his property, and then we can get back in the car and go.”

“What if he’s the one who pays?” Puck protests. “Then I’d have to admit I was trying to leave it unattended.” 

“It’s not a preschooler, Puck. It won’t wander off.”

“What if it’s like, a new kind of robot?” Puck protests. “Could be industrial espionage, Kurt. It doesn’t _have_ to be drugs.”

“Hmm.” Kurt keeps his eyes on the road, but frowns as he turns the wheel. “Could have some kind of tracking device in it, as well, or GPS.”

Puck turns around and frowns at the garbage bag–wrapped bucket. “You think so? What stops those, magnets?”

“I have no idea,” Kurt confesses.

“Maybe we should find a lot of magnets, just in case.” Puck shrugs. “Anyway, it could be a lot of things. Could really even be chlorine, just like, nerve gas–chlorine or something.”

“I hope it’s safe to keep it at this temperature,” Kurt says. He looks over his shoulder nervously, pressing his lips together. “Should I turn the air down? Keeping it cool would make more sense, I would think.”

“Nah, I always keep it in the back of my truck, no matter what the temperature is, and they don’t care,” Puck says. “So it should be fine.”

Kurt nods. “Moment of truth, then,” he says, as he pulls into the entrance to Ruiz & Sons Used Auto, parking on the far side of the building. 

“There’s a very strange range of cars for sale here,” Puck says, looking around the lot. “Guess it’s time to see what Jorge has to say for himself.”

Before Kurt and Puck even get all the way out of the car, they’re approached by a man in a cowboy hat, pushed a little too far back on his head, and a powder blue suit. The man immediately grabs Puck by the hand, shaking it vigorously.

“Welcome, welcome! Great to see you out here on this fine spring day. Are you looking for any sort of vehicle in particular?” the man asks without releasing Puck’s hand from his tight grip. 

“Yeah, I’m looking for the kind that pays me five hundred dollars,” Puck says. “Jimmy sent me.”

The man immediately drops Puck’s hand and takes a step back. “I’m afraid I don’t know who you’re talking about,” he says.

Kurt walks around from the other side of the car. “I’m sure you must, Mr. Ruiz. He mentioned you by name.”

“I’m not the only Ruiz in Lima!” Jorge protests. “He could mean one of my sons. Jorge Junior, maybe.”

“You don’t have any sons,” Kurt counters. “The name is just to give you the appearance of a family business. I’m Burt Hummel’s son.”

“Well, I don’t know a Jimmy,” Jorge insists. “Not even a Jim or a James. If you’re not here to look at cars, I have to ask you to leave the property.”

“I just want to deliver the bucket and get paid,” Puck says, crossing his arms again. “No mess, no fuss. Business.”

Jorge’s face pales underneath the cowboy hat. “You brought the bucket _here_?” he asks, his voice sounding constricted and higher than previously. “Are you crazy?”

“Where would I put it?” Puck retorts. 

“I don’t care! You can’t leave it here!” Jorge says loudly. “I’m not the guy for that! I’m not the guy!”

"Then who is?" Puck demands. "Give me a name, give me a number, or… we'll leave the bucket and call the cops!" he improvises. "Tell them that _you_ killed Julio."

“Who’s Julio?” Jorge asks. This time he looks genuinely confused. “Look, kid, I just need you to take the bucket and go. I don’t want any trouble, and neither do you.”

“We need names,” Kurt says firmly. “If you can give us the name or names of the correct people to whom we should take this bucket, we’ll be happy to go.”

Puck almost raises his eyebrows at Kurt’s use of ‘we’, but stops himself. If Kurt wants to be part of Puck’s allies or whatever against the clearly fascist bucket–people, why should Puck object? Instead, he glares at Jorge and nods. “That’s right. Names and we’ll leave.”

Jorge glances to the left and right, then sighs. “Come into the office. I’ll give you the only names I know.”

“Uh-uh.” Puck shakes his head. “I’ve seen these kind of movies. It could be a trap, with minions and everything. Just tell us.”

“Alright. It’s a short list, anyway,” Jorge says. “The only two people I can think of for you to talk to are Brett Gorski and Toby.”

“Brett Gorski?” Puck repeats, then looks over at Kurt. “Does he mean Stoner Brett?”

“I do recall him being placed somewhere near me in line for class pictures in eighth grade,” Kurt says. “That suggests a G or H surname.” He turns to Jorge. “And Toby who?”

“Just Toby,” Jorge says. “Nobody calls him anything but Toby.”

“What does Toby do? Hang out at the Lima Bean?” Puck asks. “Just waiting for people to find him?”

“You can find Toby if you need him. Brett Gorski might know him, or might buy from him anyway,” Jorge says. “Now, is that enough? Will you take your bucket and leave my property now?”

“Just one more question,” Kurt says, catching Puck by the arm before he can walk away. “Do you know a Parrotfish Smith or anyone named The Neck?”

“Parrotfish? No, that’s a name I’d remember, if I heard it,” Jorge says, shaking his head. “The Neck, hmm. Isn’t he that bodybuilder who opened up the gym over near the Ray’s?”

“Could be,” Kurt answers. “Puck? Is this sufficient information? Are you sure you don’t want to just leave the bucket here and be done with it?”

Jorge’s face turns red. “You can’t just leave that—”

“Jorge doesn’t have my money, far as I can tell,” Puck cuts him off, shaking his head. “But we’ll be back, Jorge, if this doesn’t pan out.”

“I think you just like saying ‘Jorge’,” Kurt whispers out of the corner of his mouth.

Puck shrugs as he turns away from Jorge. “Maybe,” he whispers back. “Let’s leave his blue-suited ass behind now.”

“Sounds good to me,” Kurt agrees. “Have a nice day, Mr. Ruiz.”

Jorge doesn’t respond. He turns around and storms off towards the office. Kurt looks at Puck and asks, “So? Where now?”

“Hot dog and your cheesecake, I figured. Then I guess we should try that gym. I mean, Stoner Brett? Really?” Puck shakes his head. “If he had anything written down, he probably accidentally smoked it.”

“It does seem unlikely,” Kurt agrees. “Fine. Hot dogs first, but we’re not eating in my car. We’ll sit down and look at your list again, and decide from there.”

Puck realizes maybe his first impression was wrong; maybe it’s not just him who can’t eat in Kurt’s car. He’d had a weird picture in his head of Kurt sitting there eating while Puck stood outside to eat, but sitting down to eat makes more sense, because fascist bucket–criminals probably aren’t scouring the restaurants for Puck. 

“Aww, shit,” he says with a groan as they climb back. “I’m recognizable.”

“You certainly are,” Kurt says. “We’ll worry about that after lunch.”

Puck frowns, then sighs. “Yeah, I guess so.”

They drive to Joey’s, and when they park, Kurt glances into the backseat. “Do you think the bucket should be left out here?”

“They might think it’s a bucket of pickle relish or something, if we take it in,” Puck points out. “That could be bad.”

Kurt moves the black plastic and peers inside the bag. “Do you think it could be something like that? Maybe not pickle relish exactly, but some sort of illegally-imported food product?”

“Maybe?” Puck grimaces. “I don’t think— oh, like Cuban cigars, you mean? Or they’re not food, but those blood diamonds or whatever they’re called, from the Congo?”

Kurt stares at the bucket with even more interest. “It could be. Maybe we should consider opening it, if we can’t find someone to take it.”

“Maybe.” Puck starts to grin. “Wait, you’re hoping it _is_ something valuable, that we could sell.” 

“No, I’m hoping it’s diamonds, because _diamonds_ ,” Kurt says, returning Puck’s smile. “Let’s go in and eat before the temptation overwhelms my better judgment.”

“Yeah, okay,” Puck agrees. They’re walking in when a random memory floats across his mind. “Hey, wait. Do you _really_ have a tiara collection? Somebody told me that back during sophomore year, and I didn’t really believe them, but if you do. Well, that’d explain the diamonds thing, I guess.”

“Food, Puck,” Kurt says, pointing at the Joey’s. “Before I throw you and your bucket out on the sidewalk.”

“I _said_ I didn’t believe them!” Puck protests as he pulls the door open. “It was just a question.” 

Kurt doesn’t answer as the two of them walk into Joey’s, where they order their food and sit down. Puck puts the list in the middle of the table, then pats his pockets. “You got a pen?” he asks around a bite of hot dog. “Maybe they’ll let us borrow one.”

“I have one,” Kurt says, holding up a small leather bag with a long strap that Puck hadn’t even noticed he was carrying. Kurt rifles through the bag and hands a pen to Puck. 

“Okay, I’m writing down Stoner Brett and Toby under Jorge here.” Puck grins when he says ‘Jorge’, then finishes writing and caps the pen. “But since we don’t know how to find Parrotfish, we’ll try to find The Neck. This Toby guy seems a little dodgy. Just one name?”

“Yes, Puck, tell me about how dodgy it is to go by one name,” Kurt says, resting his chin on the back of his hand as he watches Puck write. 

Puck looks up and glares. “At least people _know_ my last name. It’s an aesthetic choice,” he adds with a sniff.

“Ah,” Kurt says. “Of course. Now, do we actually try to track down Brett, or should we try the gym?”

“Fuck, no. What could Brett tell us?” Puck asks. “We’ll have to try the gym.”

“That’s what I was afraid of,” Kurt sighs. 

“Just tell ’em you already have a membership somewhere else, if they bug us about signing up,” Puck advises. “If The Neck doesn’t throw us out, we can probably manage to score free six-month memberships.”

“Just finish your food so we can go,” Kurt says. “It’s already past three, and I do have plans tonight.”

“Oh yeah? Hitting the hot clubs with Blaine?” Puck asks, raising his eyebrows and grinning. 

“If by hot clubs you mean pedicures with Tina and Mercedes, then yes.”

“Dude, that’s a _horrible_ date,” Puck says with a wince. “That’d be like me taking a girl to the barber!”

“Pedicures are actually very relaxing,” Kurt says. “You should try one some time.”

“Yeah, sure, okay, maybe they’re relaxing,” Puck agrees, because what’s the point in arguing that with Kurt. “But when I go on a date, I’m not exactly aiming for _relaxing_.”

“No offense, but I doubt you’ve ever been with someone as long as I’ve been with Blaine,” Kurt says. “Part of a loving, lasting relationship is finding ways to relax together.”

“No, dude, I think it means I have to quote the Righteous Brothers. You’ve lost that loving feeling.”

“Please. Like you’d know love if it bit you in the ass,” Kurt snipes back. 

“I just know that if I didn’t get my ass dumped, I still wouldn’t be celebrating my one year anniversary with fucking pedicures or massage or anything else relaxing.” Puck shrugs. “Way I figure it, you’ve got to have high standards.”

“Can we just focus on getting rid of this bucket, please?”

“Sure, whatever.” Puck puts his hands up, then notices some stray mustard and grabs a napkin. “Let’s go get some money and a couple of free gym memberships. Oh, but I don’t think I’d go to the gym with a girl, so you and Blaine probably shouldn’t go to the same classes.”

“We actually enjoy working out together, not that it’s any of your business,” Kurt says. “I don’t think I’ll be joining a gym run by someone named The Neck, though.”

Puck groans and shakes his head. “You’re killing me, Kurt. Killing me.”

The drive over to The Neck’s gym is cool bordering on freezing, with Kurt shooting Puck the occasional wounded glare. The parking lot outside the gym is surprisingly full, and Kurt gets out of the car and starts storming towards the building without looking back to see if Puck is following him. He doesn’t even mention the bucket. 

Puck rolls his eyes and walks slowly towards the entrance. He’s probably hitting too close to home, judging by Kurt’s response. If he weren’t, Kurt would be laughing instead of defensive. The Neck appears to be running some kind of promotional deal since it’s still the ‘Gran Opening’— Puck hopes the ‘d’ fell off, and it’s not that The Neck thought it was his granny’s place or something. 

The front desk is manned by a woman with big tits wearing a bikini top and a pair of yoga pants. Puck’s not really sure how she can work out, not with tits that big and a top that small, but maybe that’s not the point. She keeps flipping through a magazine and blowing bubbles with her gum, and doesn’t seem to register Puck and Kurt’s presence at first. 

Kurt clears his throat loudly, which makes the woman glance up. “Oh. Hi. Are you here for a membership?” she asks Kurt, popping her gum and leaning so far forward that her bikini top reaches maximum capacity and threatens overflow. “Or, like, a class or something?”

“Yeah, you’re barking up the wrong tree,” Puck says to her with his best grin. “And normally I’d suggest you spend some time barking over here, but right now, we kind of need to talk to The Neck.”

“Do you have an appointment?” the woman asks. She blows another large bubble with her gum and lets it pop. 

“He’ll want to hear what we have to say,” Kurt says.

“Tell him I’m a friend of Jimmy’s,” Puck offers. “And I _was_ a friend of Julio’s.”

The woman huffs, but she picks up the phone and punches a button. “Mister Neck? I’ve got some people up here to see you.” She puts down the phone and picks her magazine back up again. 

“Is he coming or not?” Kurt asks. 

“You can go on back,” the woman says, waving her hand towards the back of the gym. “He’s on the leg press. Here, you can bring him a towel.” She shoves a white towel at Kurt. 

“Yeah, no, we don’t work for him or you,” Puck says, taking the white towel and dropping it on top of her magazine. “Have a nice day.” He starts to walk in the direction she gestured, shaking his head. 

“She was charming,” Kurt says, as they weave through the workout equipment and exercise benches, most of them occupied by sweaty, veiny dudes who look like they stepped out of a steroid commercial. 

Puck snorts. “Yeah, she was something. I think she might’ve been too old for me. Hard to tell.”

“Since when do you have an upper age limit?” Kurt asks. 

“I turned over a new leaf for Hanukkah. I was gonna go with thirty, but that seemed too arbitrary, so I went with thirty-two.”

“Ah,” Kurt says. “Oh, look. I bet that’s him.” He gestures to an extremely large black man with close-cropped bleached hair, pressing at least seven-fifty on the leg press. Kurt leans close to Puck’s ear and whispers, “I understand his nickname now.” 

Puck has to cough to disguise his laughter, because Kurt’s totally right. The Neck has a huge neck. His neck’s almost wider than his actual head. “Yeah,” he finally manages. “I think so.” They stand next to the leg press, and Puck waits until he finishes the set to speak. “I need to deliver a bucket,” he says. 

The Neck lets the weight drop with a loud clank. “We’re going to my office,” he booms in a deep baritone. “Now.”

“Yes sir,” Kurt says, his eye widening. He catches Puck’s eye and nods his head like he’s trying to coach Puck to agree as well. Puck rolls his eyes a little but nods. 

“You think he graduated high school?” Puck whispers to Kurt as they follow The Neck to his office. “Like April. We could use his voice!”

“I know! I wonder how he feels about _Camelot_?” Kurt whispers back excitedly. 

“Came-what? They made a musical about JFK?”

“Shhh,” Kurt hisses. “Later.”

The Neck shuts the office door behind them. “Okay. Explain why you’re bringing bucket talk up into my place of business.”

“Because I have a bucket I can’t deliver,” Puck says. “Because Julio’s dead and Jimmy ran.” Technically, Puck’s just been assuming Julio is dead; he didn’t double-check or anything. 

“Jorge!” Kurt pipes up, his voice thin. “Don’t forget Jorge.”

“Right, and Jorge Ruiz.” Puck smirks at The Neck. “So just tell me where to take the damn bucket so I can get paid, or tell me who to talk to, and we’ll be out of your hair. Or you could pay me and I could leave the bucket here. Kurt here has _plans_ this evening and all.”

“Pedicure,” Kurt squeaks. 

“And all of this is my problem how?” The Neck asks. 

“You’re right, Kurt. We should leave the bucket next to the ‘Gran Opening’ sign,” Puck says. “By the way, you’re missing a ‘d’.”

“You’re about to be missing a couple of fingers, if you don’t watch it, little man,” The Neck says. “Not my job to take the buckets. Sure as shit not my job to pay for the buckets.”

“Then tell us where to go. That’s all we’re asking,” Puck says calmly. Considering The Neck doesn’t appear to have extensive weaponry, Puck’s doubting the threat. It’s hard to take off fingers by sitting on them. 

“You talked to Rick Rickman yet?” The Neck asks. He sits down in a large chair behind his large desk; the chair creaks alarmingly. 

“Rick Rickman,” Puck repeats, pulling out his list. “Where can we find him?” He holds his hand out towards Kurt and raises one eyebrow. 

“Lives out in Bath in one of those country club neighborhoods.” The Neck scribbles something down on a yellow Post-It and hands it across the desk to Puck. “Tell him he still owes me eleven-hundred for that equipment.”

“Hmph,” Puck says. “What about Parrotfish? You know where he is?”

“The bookie?” The Neck asks, like the world is overrun with dudes named ‘Parrotfish’.

“Sure.” Puck figures that there’s a high likelihood of a bucket–fascist being a bookie, too. “He’s on my list.”

“Check the slots in back of the Squirty Worm,” The Neck says. “He’s there every day but Tuesdays.”

“Thank you,” Kurt manages to chirp. “We’ll get out of your way now.”

Puck shoves his list and The Neck’s Post-It into his pocket and nods, following a step behind Kurt. “Today’s not Tuesday,” he whispers as they walk out. “So why he’d tell us that?” They wind around a bench and Puck nods at the dude on it. “How much do you bench?”

Kurt gives Puck a strange look. “What?”

“Bench press. How much?” Puck asks again. “I max 275 right now.”

“I do hot yoga,” Kurt says, the same strange look on his face. 

“Seriously?” Puck eyes Kurt’s arms skeptically as they walk outside. “Nope. Sorry, I don’t believe it. Is it like, only 200 or something? ’Cause Mike’s still pretty low on weight.”

“Sometimes I do Pilates.”

“Fine, don’t tell me.” Puck shakes his head. “It’s not like I was going to Facebook it or anything.”

“So,” Kurt says, ignoring Puck’s remarks. “Parrotfish next?”

“Yeah, let’s go find Parrotfish at the freaking Squirty Worm.” Puck rolls his eyes. “Maybe he feels like he fits in there.”

They drive out to the Squirty Worm, Kurt still occasionally giving Puck a strange look. “What?” Puck finally asks as Kurt is parking. 

“Nothing,” Kurt says. “Here we are at the Squirty Worm, looking for a guy named Parrotfish, so we can get rid of a bucket full of God knows what.”

“Oh, shit, I hope they let me in,” Puck says as they get out and head to the entrance. “They told me I had a lifetime ban, but that was years ago now, so maybe they forgot.”

“Oh my God, Puck, you couldn’t think of this _before_ we got here?” Kurt asks. “What if they don’t?”

“I was only thirteen!” Puck protests. “I didn’t mean to break the ball return. I just thought it’d be nice if Finn got a free game, since it was his birthday.”

“Did you have the mohawk then?”

“Hmm. Finn’s birthday… no, not yet.” Puck brightens. “Awesome.”

“Then hopefully it will be fine,” Kurt says. He opens the door to the Squirty Worm and squints as he looks inside. “It’s so dark in here. How do we find Parrotfish?”

“I’m going to look for a guy with colorful hair or a tie-dye shirt,” Puck says. “And there’s not that many slot machines.” He heads towards the back, dismissing most of the occupants as too young or too MINF-y to be a bookie. There are three people playing the slots; one of them is an old woman with a can and a determined expression, another is a Squirty Worm employee who looks up guiltily when he sees them, and the third is actually a guy in a tie-dye shirt. Puck nods towards him, raising his eyebrows questioningly at Kurt. 

“Unless the granny with the can is Parrotfish,” Kurt says quietly. 

Puck snickers and heads for the tie-dye shirt. “Parrotfish?” he says to him. “Need to talk to you.”

“Huh? What?” The guy in the tie-dye—Parrotfish, apparently—spins in place, his back pressed to the slot machine. “I swear, I’ve got the money, plus the interest!”

“What do we look like?” Puck says incredulously. “We just need to make a delivery.”

“Oh yeah?” Parrotfish asks. His eyes dart around and his hand has a noticeable tremor to it as he rakes it through his hair. “Oh, yeah. You Jimmy’s boy?”

“Nobody’s boy. Just looking to make this delivery and get paid,” Puck says calmly. “I don’t know why everyone wants it, and I don’t care. Tell me where to take it, that’s it.”

“Oh, you’ve got it all wrong, Jimmy’s boy,” Parrotfish says. “Don’t nobody want what you got. None of us gonna touch it. We value our lives.”

“Then give me a goddamn name,” Puck growls. The reference like he belongs to Jimmy makes him want to punch Parrotfish. 

“You could talk to Brett about it, I guess,” Parrotfish says. “Brett Gorski. He might know.”

“I highly doubt Stoner Brett has any answers for us,” Kurt says. “Try again.”

“Oh, yeah? Well, then Toby. Yeah, Toby’s probably your guy. You talk to Toby, you’ll be all squared away,” Parrotfish says. “Now, you wanna go?”

“Where?” Puck asks. “Where can we find Toby?”

“Roann,” Parrotfish says, nodding his head. 

“Roann, _Indiana_?” Kurt asks shrilly. “Really?”

“Hey, uh, Jimmy’s boy?” Parrotfish says quietly. He leans forward like he’s trying to conspire with Puck or something. “Maybe next time don’t bring your boyfriend with you on your jobs, yeah? Gonna get the both of you in trouble.”

“My… what?” Puck shakes his head. “Nevermind. Right. Stoner Brett and Toby in Roann. Thanks ever so much, Parrotfish.” He steps back. “C’mon, Kurt. He was no help.”

“We have to go to Indiana?” Kurt asks as the two of them start to walk back out to the car. “I hate Indiana.”

“I don’t really want to go to Indiana, either,” Puck says. “Maybe we’ll try Rick Rickman. He’s just in Bath. That’s not far.”

“Do you think we can get back by seven?” Kurt asks. 

“Okay, here’s what’s gonna happen,” Puck says decisively. “You’re going to do pedicures with the girls another day, and _not_ with Blaine, and I’ll pay for yours and Tina’s. And you’re going to figure out a date that isn’t relaxing or working out, and plan _that_ for the day _after_ the pedicures. Got it?”

“I think I can manage my own social calendar, thank you very much,” Kurt snaps. “Pedicures are more enjoyable than another night out at Breadstix.”

“Okay, sorry, an _interesting_ date, or at least exciting. Breadstix is kinda lame sometimes.” Puck shrugs. “Oh, wait. Is it Blaine planning these things? I just assumed it was you.”

“We both plan things,” Kurt says. “We take turns.”

“Oh, damn. Like every other one?” Puck shakes his head. “No surprises?”

“Sometimes he plans two or three in a row,” Kurt says.

“Can I guess?” Puck says, grinning at Kurt. “Bowtie shopping, pants hemming, and coffee?”

“Mostly coffee and musical theatre,” Kurt acknowledges. “No, we don’t go pants hemming together.”

“You need to tell him to stop. He looks like the old dudes at temple.”

“Be nice. He’s very… fashion-forward!” Kurt puts the car back on the road, heading towards Bath. “I don’t talk bad about the girls you date.”

“Sure you would, if you didn’t like how they dressed,” Puck says with a laugh. “And no, dude. I don’t know fashion, really, but there’s fashion shit like you’ve always done, and then there’s grandpa Blaine.”

“Hmph.” Kurt stares straight ahead out the windshield. “I wouldn’t talk bad about them to your face, at least,” he grumbles. 

Puck laughs again, more loudly. “Sure you would, you just wouldn’t necessarily do it in front of me _and_ them.”

“Still. I don’t want to hear it, so knock it off,” Kurt says. 

“I solemnly swear not to mention Blaine’s grandpa pants again… for the rest of the day at least.”

“Well, aren’t you a gentleman,” Kurt mutters. 

“Hey, the way I figure it, if I promise never, I’m more likely to break it. So I don’t promise much… but I keep my promises.”

“Fine. Now take my phone and see if you can find Rick Rickman’s address,” Kurt says, handing his phone to Puck without taking his eyes off the road. “That’s much more useful than micromanaging my love life.”

“Management potential, that’s me,” Puck says with a huge grin, already tapping out ‘Rick Rickman’ on the screen. “Three ‘Rick Rickmans’ near us. Oh, but one of them is an office building. The other two… are the same Rick Rickman! Maybe he’s conjoined twins. Did you see that PBS thing about the conjoined girls? They were from some other continent.”

“Uh, no. I was busy doing anything that doesn’t involve conjoined twins.”

“Okay, well, it was pretty wild.” Puck shrugs. “Rick Rickman’s in Bath, but we knew that. So eastward to go to… Revere Road. What’s that called? When the letters are all the same at the beginning? Rick Rickman of Revere Road.”

“That’s ridiculous,” Kurt says. “Ridiculous Rick Rickman of Revere Road. But I think you probably mean alliteration.”

“Yeah, that. He alliterates.” Puck shrugs. “We can put some music on, right? Your phone says it’s at least two hours.”

“Sure. Plug my phone in and pick something,” Kurt tells him. “You’ll probably want to skip the ones marked ‘BW’, though.”

“Bondage… Bondage Wear?” Puck guess, smirking. “Bad some–word–for–dude–I–don’t–know?” He plugs the phone in and starts scrolling through the playlists while he waits for a response. 

“Broadway. _Broadway_. Honestly, Puck!”

“Hey, I rocked _West Side Story_ ,” Puck argues. “But I’m guessing you don’t have _Fiddler on the Roof_ or _The Sound of Music_ , which are the only other two musicals I know, so yeah. I’m going to skip ‘Mama’ too, ’cause that sounds kind of kinky.”

“Just scroll to the bottom,” Kurt sighs. “I have one set up for Finn that you’ll probably like.”

“I have more diverse taste than Finn,” Puck says seriously. “It just doesn’t lean towards the same direction as yours. Doesn’t make it bad, you know.” He frowns and scrolls down more. “That’s… a lot of Mellencamp, dude.”

“It’s for my dad!” Kurt squawks at him.

“What’s your favorite?” Puck asks, ignoring Kurt’s supposed reason for the Mellencamp.

“I’m not telling you. You’ll judge me.”

“Like you’ve been judging me for not knowing Broadway?” Puck asks with a grin. 

“‘Wild Nights’.”

“Nice choice,” Puck says admiringly. 

“It was my mom’s favorite,” Kurt says. “She used to sing it all the time.”

“Yeah, guess that did come out around the time we were born,” Puck says, nodding a little to himself. “Better song to teach your kid than some, that’s for sure.” Puck grins and starts the Mellencamp playlist going, then sets Kurt’s phone back down. “Maybe Rick Rickman’ll confirm it’s diamonds in the bucket. Then we could just sell ’em.”

“Maybe keep a few, sell the rest,” Kurt counters. “So, since we don’t have much else to do besides discuss the bucket or talk about music, do you want to tell me a little bit more about why you thought this whole thing was a good idea? I mean, did you have some kind of exit strategy for it?”

“No one ever said I couldn’t quit,” Puck says with a shrug. “I mean, I told Jimmy I was getting out of here after graduation, give or take a few months. It wasn’t like I was going to take it cross-country with me.” 

“I would have thought it was like the movies about the mafia, and you can never really get out,” Kurt muses.

“Well, they never told me anything. I mean, what could I have told anyone else? I guess now I know more and— shit, I’m still recognizable.”

“We can always do something about that, if we can’t get this straightened out quickly,” Kurt says.

“Yeah, I think maybe that means ‘if the ridiculous alliterative dude can’t help’,” Puck admits. 

“We’ll figure it out,” Kurt insists. “If there’s anything I’m good at, it’s makeovers.” He cuts his eyes over to Puck and looks like he’s suppressing a grin. “How would you feel about going blond?”

Puck winces. “You know, I’ve seen what happens when a bottle blonde spends too long in the tanning bed.” He stretches out his arm. “I think that’s a bad idea, dude.”

“Redhead, maybe,” Kurt says, more to himself than to Puck. “Hmm. No, definitely not with your coloring. Only solution might be to shave it off.”

“Dammit. For the record, those are both horrible,” Puck says. “I could try spiking it up. Going punk?”

“Yes, because nothing says flying under the radar like a spiked mohawk, Puck. That’s very subtle.”

“I don’t think I do subtle,” Puck admits. “I mean – have I ever been subtle?”

Kurt doesn’t answer at first. He glances over at Puck again. “Not exactly.”

“Maybe I’ve been partially subtle?” Puck says, frowning a little. “Is that possible?”

“Sure, we’ll go with that,” Kurt says. They ride without talking for a while, listening to Kurt’s seemingly endless Mellencamp playlist. As they get closer to Bath, Kurt starts to look antsy, looking into the rearview mirror and then over to the side mirrors repeatedly. “Puck?”

“Yeah?” Puck says, straightening and trying to look behind them without turning around. “Cops?”

“Black sedan that’s been following us for the last fifteen minutes,” Kurt says. “Could be nothing. Could be something. Could be a whole lot of something.”

“Damn.” Puck sighs. “I mean, maybe they’re just going the same way. And this isn’t exactly as distinctive as my piece of shit truck.” 

“Maybe I’m just being paranoid,” Kurt admits. “Here, can you navigate me through the directions to Rick Rickman’s?”

“Yeah, yeah,” Puck says, picking Kurt’s phone up again. “On the other hand, we did stop and see an awful lot of people, so I guess they could have gotten a description out. We’re going to head left up here.”

Kurt makes the turn a little more sharply than Puck expected, throwing them both to the side. “Sorry,” Kurt says, wincing. 

“Just warn me if we’re going to be making doughnuts or something,” Puck jokes. He looks over at Kurt, briefly considering if Kurt would be the type to do illegal drag racing or something similar.

“Okay, is this it up on the right?” Kurt asks. He squints and leans his head down to get a better look. “Is that yellow tape?”

“Don’t turn,” Puck says, shaking his head. “We’ll drive past and see—” Puck cuts himself off abruptly as they do get closer to the house that is supposed to be Rick Rickman’s. The first thing Puck notices is the cops, because of their uniforms and the marked cars and the very visible guns. But what makes Puck shrink down in his seat is the guys who aren’t cops, the guys in plain black suits who obviously belong to the unmarked black cars. “Shit!”

“Oh my God,” Kurt murmurs. “Are those FBI agents? Or CIA or something? I’m not sure what agency we might be dealing with. NSA?”

The black car that has followed them for the last twenty miles slows down as Kurt and Puck pass Rick Rickman’s house, then turns up the driveway and parks. Puck looks in his side mirror long enough to see that the guy who gets out is dressed in the same plain black suit, and he shudders. “Shit!” he repeats. “I’m guessing diamonds are out.”

“I don’t even think it could be drugs, not with that many suits,” Kurt says. “Unless it’s some kind of designer drug. Maybe it’s information? Schematics or launch codes.”

“We have to get out of here. And not by the same road. And— did I mention _shit_?” Puck says. “For the record, I vote information.”

“Okay, okay. We’ll circle around them as wide as we can, head back to Lima via a different road, and— and—” Kurt exhales loudly. “I’m not sure what we do then. My head is killing me and I really just want a few Advil and a cup of coffee.”

“They’re probably not going to look for me at the Lima Bean,” Puck admits. “And I’ll paste on a fake beard or something in the bathroom there.”

“I have a few extra hats in the back,” Kurt offers. 

“Extra hats?” Puck says. “Like, in case there’s… a hat emergency? And people need hats?”

“Hats change the entire feel of an outfit,” Kurt explains. “They can dress it up or down. It’s useful to have options available to me. There’s a nice fedora back there that might suit you. Light blue band.”

“I’m pretty sure that wearing a fedora with jeans and a T-shirt is going to make me stand out more, not less,” Puck says skeptically. 

“But you won’t stand out as the guy with the mohawk. Besides, if you’re wearing a fedora and you’re with me, well…” Kurt shrugs and continues in an apologetic tone. “They’ll probably just assume you’re _with_ me.”

“Aren’t you going to warn Blaine about that?” Puck says wryly. “When you call to cancel the pedicures, I mean.”

“I’ll call him from the Lima Bean to _reschedule_ our pedicures, and I’m not overly concerned about Blaine thinking you’re with me.”

“Hey.” Puck narrows his eyes. “That’s not some kind of commentary on me, is it? ’Cause ha-ha, Puck’s such a joke.”

“No, I mean that he trusts me,” Kurt says. “Mostly. He knows I wouldn’t not only cheat on him, but flaunt it by bringing my illicit affair to the Lima Bean, at least.”

“Great. Now I’m wanted by guys with guns, guys in black suits, and I’m illicit. All without getting any illicit action,” Puck says sourly. “Tell me the Lima Bean has those really sugary cold coffee drinks that barely have any coffee in them, at least?”

“In your choice of at least a half a dozen flavors,” Kurt says. “I recommend the white chocolate or the caramel. The raspberry tastes a little fake and they never put in enough of the vanilla to make it worth the cost.”

Puck stares at Kurt briefly. “That was a disturbingly detailed analysis that focused on the most trivial thing possible, and I thought I was good at avoiding topics.”

“I don’t really have anything new to add about the guns, the black suits, or anything else, and I can’t really help you with that illicit action,” Kurt says. “So I figured coffee was the safest topic.”

“Spoilsport,” Puck mutters. 

“I’m sorry that illicit just doesn’t push my buttons,” Kurt says. “I like safe and reliable and—”

“Bullshit,” Puck says with a snort. “You like to push the envelope. Or you used to, anyway.” He decides it’s probably in his own best interests not to mention that criss-crossing Ohio with Puck is the opposite of ‘safe and reliable’, since it’s working out pretty well for Puck so far. 

“In fashion!” Kurt protests. “Or music. Not with my life!”

“Uh-huh,” Puck says doubtfully. “Let’s just get that coffee and I’ll put on a fedora while not drinking fake raspberry flavor.”

“Fine by me,” Kurt answers, a little prissy-sounding, pursing his lips as he stares through the windshield at the road. He doesn’t say anything else to Puck until they’re rolling back into Lima. He backs into a parking spot about a hundred yards away from the Lima Bean, then turns to Puck. “Bring the list. We’ll try to figure out what comes next. Oh, and don’t forget the hat. Light blue band, remember?”

“How could I forget?” Puck grumbles, and he briefly considers an ugly patchwork hat that isn’t a fedora, just to fuck with Kurt. In the end, he plunks on the fedora, though, and follows Kurt into the Lima Bean, list in his pocket. Once they’re inside, Kurt points to a small table towards the back, then hands his satchel to Puck. 

“Sit,” Kurt commands imperiously. “Try not to draw any attention to yourself while I get our coffee.”

“Like a fedora won’t?” Puck says under his breath, and just because he can, he sits at the table next to the one Kurt pointed out. He tosses Kurt’s satchel onto the chair opposite him as he sits. 

“Here all alone?” a voice says behind Puck. “Nick Fury finally get tired of your company?” Puck doesn’t turn around, trying to decide between sinking down further or just ignoring the voice, whoever it is. It’s familiar, but he can’t place it, and he doesn’t know what the Avengers have to do with anything. 

“Not even going to give me the pleasure of the Hummel bitchface?” the voice continues. “I’d say I’m hurt, but, well.”

Puck barely stops himself from snorting. The stupid fedora has whoever this idiot is confused, and Puck wonders if Kurt can sneak up behind him or something. Puck thinks for another moment and realizes that it sounds like the Warbler guy that threw the slushie, and he shakes his head slowly. His guess is confirmed when the guy takes another step around the table and frowns.

“Oh. Not Kurt Hummel. I guess he finally took my advice and donated his wardrobe to Goodwill,” Sebastian says. 

“Fuck you, Richie Rich,” Puck mutters, rolling his eyes. 

“Ah, Sebastian,” Kurt says, coming up behind Sebastian with a cup of coffee in each hand. “Charming as always, I see.”

“Kurt, we were just talking about you,” Sebastian responds, plastering on a smirky, shit-eating smile. “Well, I was talking about you. Your friend here was just expressing his jealousy of my socioeconomic status.”

“As enjoyable as this little conversation hasn’t been,” Kurt says, putting on his own insincere smile. “My acquaintance and I have— actually, no, you should sit. I have a business proposition for you. I’m sure you’re very comfortable accepting propositions.”

“If you and your friend are asking me for a threeway, I’m going to have to insist you double-bag it,” Sebastian retorts, then looks Kurt up and down. “Triple-bag in your case.”

“At least it’d be some illicit action,” Puck says, feeling a little bit like a kicked baby animal of some kind. Probably not a puppy; maybe a guinea pig. 

“What?” Kurt asks, turning to Puck. “Oh for— just _sit_ , Sebastian. There’s money involved, so I’m sure you can fake it for ten minutes.”

“That’s probably all he ever does,” Puck says with a smirk and a momentary sense of pride. “Fake it, I mean.” He does his own up and down look of Sebastian, and shakes his head. “I’d do without the illicit action if it has to involve him.”

Sebastian just gives Puck a broader version of the shit-eating grin, then turns a chair around backwards and straddles it with a suggestive eyebrow waggle. “Fine. You have exactly sixty seconds to convince me to continue this conversation.”

“Fake IDs. We need them,” Kurt says bluntly. “Fast.”

“Planning another trip to Scandals?” Sebastian asks. 

Puck snorts. “Not hardly. That place is lame.”

“Puck,” Kurt says sharply, under his breath. “It’s a _gay_ bar.”

“Yeah, I know that,” Puck whispers, rolling his eyes. “It’s a lame gay bar.”

Sebastian starts to stand. “As fascinating as this share-time about your sexuality is, if you don’t have something more relevant to me to talk about, I’ll just—”

“ _Sit!_ ” Kurt snaps, and surprisingly, Sebastian drops back into the chair. “Can you get us the IDs or not, Sebastian? It’s a simple question.”

“Why should I?” Sebastian asks. “What’s in it for me, exactly?”

“Money?” Puck says, shaking his head. “Kurt, I thought you had to be smart to go to Dalton.” 

“Do you a favor for pocket change? Pass,” Sebastian says, shaking his head and starting to stand up again. 

“We could give him a mohawk,” Puck mutters under his breath. Kurt ignores Puck, though, and turns up the wattage on his smile.

“Actually, we can offer you something a little more interesting than money,” Kurt says, drawing out the words in a way that makes the offer sound extra-enticing. Sebastian must agree, because he sits down again, and raises one eyebrow, nodding at Kurt to continue. “As my business partner here pointed out, Scandals is a lame gay bar, so no, we don’t need the IDs for Scandals, or any other bar.”

“We’ve got something that a whole bunch of people want,” Puck says, not sure if ‘business partner’ is upgrading or downgrading from ‘acquaintance’. “Might be worth your time.”

“That depends on what it is they want,” Sebastian notes. “And why?”

“Something we aren’t discussing here in public,” Kurt counters. “Enough people have been shot over this already, and as much as I’d enjoy attending your funeral in my brightest Puerto Rican Pride float ensemble, I’d prefer to not have it preceded by your blood on my hands. Or my shoes.”

“Can I come party at the funeral, too?” Puck asks Kurt under his breath. “I don’t know what Puerto Rico has to do with it, though.”

Sebastian’s other eyebrow joins the first up near his hairline. “Drugs?”

“Come see for yourself,” Kurt says mildly. “Decide if it’s worth your time and effort to do us this favor.”

Puck stands up abruptly, because really, this Sebastian kid is going to piss him off if they sit there much longer, then picks up his frozen coffee thing with a side glare at Sebastian. Sebastian looks between Puck and Kurt a few times like maybe he’s trying to assess if they’re just fucking with him or might actually have something interesting to offer. After a few seconds, though, he stands up, too. 

“I don’t have anything else better to do with the next five minutes of my time,” Sebastian tosses out. “Show me what you’ve got and we’ll talk.”

“Just follow me,” Kurt says, grabbing his bag from the back of his chair and walking towards the front door with his drink in hand, not sparing a backwards look to see if Sebastian is actually following him. Sebastian is. 

As they’re walking out the door, Sebastian says, “You know, I’m surprised by how far you’ve lowered your standards. I’m not exactly an advocate for monogamy, but if you’re going to sleep around on Blaine, couldn’t you try a little harder?”

“Please,” Kurt snorts. “Just because you’ll have sex with anything that doesn’t run away, doesn’t mean that’s something I’m interested in.”

Puck isn’t sure which of them is more insulting, so he settles for taking a drink of his coffee and glaring at both of them as they reach the Navigator. Kurt raises his hand high in the air and snaps a few times before pointing at the door behind the driver’s seat, giving Puck a slight nod of his head in the door’s direction. 

“M’not your dog, or your guinea pig,” Puck says, glaring just at Kurt. 

“Just get the door,” Kurt huffs. Puck rolls his eyes and opens the door, still glaring. “Sebastian, you lean in there and take a little look at that bucket.”

“We’re not supposed to—”

As Sebastian leans out of their line of sight, Kurt mouths “shhh” and puts his fingers to his lips. His other hand slips into his satchel. “It’s on the other side of the car, I’m afraid. You’ll have to lean across to get to it. 

“Couldn’t I just walk around to the other— _aaaaaaaagh!_ ” Sebastian’s complaint dissolves into a high-pitched scream as his body starts to spasm and flail. 

“Holy shit!” Puck yells. “Did he have a heart attack?”

“Don’t touch him!” Kurt responds shrilly, then Sebastian starts flailing around with renewed vigor, though less screaming. 

“Did you poison him?” Puck asks. 

“Um. Not exactly?” Kurt says, hoisting a small stun gun. Sebastian stops screaming and spasming briefly, going limp against the back seat with half his body hanging out into the parking space. 

“What are we doing with him?” Puck asks. “Can I kick him now?”

“I have a few scarves in the back where the hats were. Get a few and tie his hands together behind his back,” Kurt says. One of Sebastian’s legs starts to twitch, and Kurt jabs him with the stun gun again, not shocking him this time. “Ankles, too. And hurry, I think this thing only has the three charges, so if I have to zap him again, I’m out!”

Puck kicks Sebastian’s knee before picking up the scarves from the back, and while he’s at it, he swaps hats, putting on the ugly patchwork one. If he ties Sebastian’s wrists and ankles a little too tightly, who’s going to complain. After thinking about it for just a few seconds, Puck blindfolds him with the darkest, least see-through scarf. Finally, he pockets an extra scarf and shoves Sebastian the rest of the way in. 

“Now get in,” Kurt instructs, shoving the stun gun back into his satchel where he’s apparently been carrying it around the whole time. “We need to go. _Now_.”

Puck picks up his coffee drink and swings into the passenger seat without a word, because he’s really still pissed about— well, a lot of things. Kurt backs out of the space and then throws the car into drive, pressing the gas pedal to the floor. The tires squeal as they turn down Elizabeth Street. Kurt looks a little paler than normal, and his breathing is a little more rapid, too. 

Before Puck decides to stop sulking and actually ask what exactly Kurt plans to do with Sebastian, Kurt’s phone starts blaring ‘Teenage Dream’. Kurt glances down at the phone, then up at the clock in his dash, which reads 7:15, and mutters, “Oh. Damn.”

Puck smirks to himself and picks up the phone, reading Blaine’s name before he answers it. “Sup?”

“Kurt?” Blaine sounds horribly confused, and Puck laughs. 

“Kurt’s indisposed, and really, I’m hurt,” Puck says. 

There’s silence on the other end for a moment, then Blaine starts talking again, sounding even more confused. “Puckerman? Why are you answering Kurt’s phone?”

“Like, I said, he’s indisposed, and—”

“Help,” Sebastian sort of groan–moan–yells from the backseat. “Somebody help.”

“Aww, fuck,” Puck mutters, handing the phone to Kurt before turning around and pulling out the extra scarf. He ties it over Sebastian’s mouth, definitely too tightly, and then decides to take advantage of the whole situation by flicking his finger, hard, against the corner of Sebastian’s mouth. “Jackass.” 

“No, no, I just ate something bad for lunch,” Kurt’s explaining into the phone in a pretty convincing put–on sick voice. “Finn, too. That was him. Puck had to drive us back.” Kurt pauses for a moment. “I’m sure I’ll feel fine by tomorrow.” After another pause, he quickly says, “No! No, thank you, Blaine, but that won’t be necessary. Just in case it’s a virus and not food poisoning, I wouldn’t want to get you sick, too.”

“He’d have to touch you to get sick,” Puck mutters with a snort at the end of the sentence. 

Kurt pulls the phone away from his face and presses it to his chest, hissing “Hush!” before returning it to his ear. “Sorry, I had to make sure Finn didn’t try to vomit into the cup holder. I’ll make it up to you, I promise.” He sighs and adds, “I love you, too. Give my best to Mercedes and Tina.”

“Wow, that was a convincing declaration of love,” Puck says sarcastically as soon as Kurt ends the call. “Touching, even.”

“Just stop,” Kurt snaps. “I had to pretend to be ‘indisposed’, thank you very much. Now I have to make sure he doesn’t talk to Finn before we do and figure out that Finn wasn’t actually with us all day!”

Sebastian groans and flops around. Kurt slams the brakes hard, sending Sebastian flying forward into the back of the front passenger seat. Sebastian groans even louder. 

“And quit making so much noise!” Kurt yells back at Sebastian, who manages to roll himself back onto the seat, staring at Kurt with the whites of his eyes showing. 

“Where now?” Puck asks shortly. 

“I should take us straight to the police and turn us both in,” Kurt says. “This is ridiculous. It’s past dinner, my dad has no idea where I am, I have someone tied up in my backseat, people with guns are after us, and I just had to lie to my boyfriend!”

Puck rolls his eyes, because if Kurt really wanted to turn them in, he wouldn’t have attacked Sebastian and be hauling him around. No, Kurt’s in completely, for whatever reason, which means he’s just talking more shit. 

When Puck doesn’t say anything, Kurt huffs and starts driving again. “Roann, Indiana,” he says. “First, though, we need those IDs. Can you ungag him?”

Puck turns around, flicking the corner of Sebastian’s mouth again before removing the scarf. “Might work up to please,” Puck mutters under his breath as he sits back down. 

“Don’t,” Sebastian croaks. “Don’t tase me again.”

“Technically, it’s a stun gun,” Kurt replies.

“I’ve got money. I won’t tell anybody it was you,” Sebastian continues. “Just let me out.”

“No, I’m afraid that’s not going to work,” Kurt says, not sounding particularly regretful. “We need your hookup for IDs, and frankly, you’ve mentioned a few times that your father is a state’s attorney. Now, I don’t know about you, Puck, but I think the son of a state’s attorney could be useful in several capacities.”

“Can we just get the address for the IDs and gag him again?” Puck asks. “I really can’t fucking deal with both of you insulting me continually.”

“What? I wasn’t insulting you!” Kurt says, sounding defensive. “That wasn’t an insult. It was kidnapper banter. Don’t you ever watch crime shows?”

“Please don’t gag me again,” Sebastian pleads. “He’s in Spencerville.”

“ _Acquaintance_?” Puck says. “Snapping at me like I’m an animal? Great banter, Kurt. And you.” Puck glares at Sebastian. “I like you a lot less than I like him, so I’d shut up unless you want to get punched.”

“I was _trying_ to act professional!” Kurt protests. “I’ve never staged a kidnapping before! Or driven around with some unknown, probably illegal substance trying to avoid being shot!” He looks over his shoulder. “Where in Spencerville?”

“And let’s not even start on treating me like I’m some kind of idiot,” Puck continues. “God, I remember why I—” Puck cuts himself off abruptly. “Anyway, you don’t have to act like I’m diseased, either.”

“The Friends Church,” Sebastian interjects. “There’s a shed out back.”

“I don’t act like you’re diseased!” Kurt replies, tone starting to border on shrill again. “You’re the one who keeps making snarky remarks about my relationship, telling me how boring it is, acting like you think I’m some sort of… of… frigid Muppet Baby!”

“I think _he’s_ the frigid one, and I’m just saying… I think you settled.” Puck shrugs. “You found one obviously gay boy in Ohio and thought that meant the two of you were… I don’t know, destined soulmates or some shit. Just because of geography.”

“His name’s Jerry,” Sebastian adds. “If you knock on the shed and tell him I sent you—”

“Blaine is _not_ frigid! We have plenty of sex!” Kurt yells. “And how is it any of your business if I settled or not— which I didn’t! I didn’t settle!”

“I’d say the same thing to any of the guys if I thought they were settling,” Puck argues, scowling at Kurt. “You’re not exempt. The others just feel like they have more choices.”

“He’ll ask for seventy-five, but he’ll haggle down to sixty a piece,” Sebastian says.

“Well, I don’t have that many choices in Lima, Ohio,” Kurt says. “I’m lucky I found somebody who shares my interests and who loves me back. Now, if we’re done talking about my relationship—”

“I could take Blaine off his hands,” Sebastian says in Puck’s general direction. “Free him up for you.”

“Put the gag back in!” Kurt shrieks. “Honestly.”

“You seriously want Blaine?” Puck asks Sebastian. “Why, dude?”

“It’s some sort of demented Warbler status symbol thing,” Kurt says. “Now please, gag him again.”

“No, now we’re bonding,” Puck retorts. “Really? Status symbol?” he parrots in Sebastian’s direction. 

“I hate you both so very, very much,” Kurt grumbles.

“To be honest? A little bit, yeah,” Sebastian says. He relaxes against the seat, somehow managing to lounge while trussed up like a brisket in a roasting pan. “At first, anyway. Then it was more about the height.”

“Shut up, shut up, shut _up_ ,” Kurt mutters, gripping the steering wheel tightly.

“Yeah, I don’t understand that,” Puck says, shaking his head. “What? Kurt, I’m just having a conversation with our victim.”

“Yeah,” Sebastian responds. “The great thing about short guys, is they don’t even have to get on their knees to—”

“ _Shut up!_ ” Kurt screams. “Shut your mouth before I tie you to the freaking roof rack and _hope_ one of those guys with guns shows up!”

Puck makes a face at Sebastian and shakes his head, then turns back around. “I don’t think they’d necessarily hit him and not us.”

“Please gag him again,” Kurt says. “He gave us the address. We don’t need anything else from him.”

“Fine, but you’d better be a better conversationalist,” Puck says with a shrug, kneeling in the seat to gag Sebastian again, still a little too tightly. Sebastian garbles a protest, but it’s not very loud.

“ _Fine_ ,” Kurt retorts. “What do you want to talk about?”

“I’d say we could play the Alphabet Game, but it’s dark,” Puck says dryly. “How about I Spy?”

“Fine.”

“I get to go first? How gentlemanly of you.” Puck looks around for a moment. “I spy something blue.”

“Is it the bucket?”

“And here I thought if I went with blue instead of white, you’d maybe think it was Sebastian’s hands.” Puck sighs dramatically. “Your turn.”

“I spy something that’s going to destroy my relationship and get us both killed,” Kurt says, his voice completely emotionless.

“Wow, it’s almost like you’re talking about the bucket,” Puck says with a snort. “You know, losing out on regular sex sucks, but being single isn’t the worst thing.” It isn’t fun, either, and Puck should know, but maybe he can convince Kurt to look on the bright side. 

“It’s not about the sex,” Kurt says. He sighs quietly and shakes his head. “I don’t expect you to understand.”

“Yeah, yeah, because I’m stupid Puckerman.” Puck rolls his eyes, and opens his mouth to continue, then shuts it. “Whatever.”

“No, that’s not why,” Kurt replies. “It’s really not.”

“Is this one of those things where you’re an honorary girl?” Puck asks. 

“No,” Kurt answers, scrunching his face up in annoyance. “It’s just, do you even know what it’s like to be lonely? Not like can’t get laid tonight lonely, but completely alone.”

“Did you have the Eternal Sunshine treatment?” Puck asks. “’Cause I would have sworn you were around sophomore year.”

“Wasn’t Santana sleeping with you that whole time?”

“And didn’t you just _say_ you didn’t mean about getting laid?” Puck counters. 

“Before Blaine, the only time most people even noticed me was when they were shoving me into lockers or—no offense intended—throwing me into dumpsters,” Kurt explains. “You always had friends. You always had people who wanted to date you. Glee’s been great, but it’s not exactly an entire social life.”

“First, all that shit stopped _before_ Blaine, ’cause it’s not like you knowing him magically would stop any shit. And yeah, I had… teammates, I guess.” Puck shrugs. “But c’mon, you have to know that you’re…” Puck trails off. 

“I’m what?”

“You’re kind of intimidating,” Puck admits. “And you made it pretty clear sophomore year you didn’t want to be on our team, so to speak.”

“The football team?” Kurt asks. “I mean, other than kicking, it’s not like I did much playing.”

“You forget I technically quit the team the same week you did, I just went back,” Puck points out dryly. “But no, I meant the other guys in glee club.” 

“Oh.” Kurt stares out the windshield in silence for a while, before saying, “The best defense is a good offense. Better to reject than get rejected.”

“Sure,” Puck agrees, because he can understand that, to a point. “But every time, dude. Didn’t matter how the last time went. Like I said— intimidating.”

“Well, if I’m that intimidating, why shouldn’t I settle?” Kurt asks. “Shouldn’t I be grateful for somebody who isn’t intimidated?”

Puck isn’t sure if Kurt realizes that he’s implying that he _has_ settled, and he shakes his head slowly. “That depends on whether he was willing to break through, or if he was just too clueless to realize you were, you know?” Puck shrugs. “I just know what I see.”

In the backseat, Sebastian snorts derisively, or as derisively as someone who’s gagged can snort. Puck reaches back and flicks Sebastian in the mouth again. Sebastian whimpers in protest, but he shuts up again. 

“There’s the Friends Church,” Kurt says suddenly. “You think we can leave him in the car?”

“Are we taking him back to Lima?” Puck asks. “We could leave him in the actual church.”

“I think we should hang on to him for a while,” Kurt muses. 

“Then yeah, we can leave him here. Unless you want to shock him again.”

“Oh, I _want_ to shock him again,” Kurt says. “I just think I should save the last charge.” He pulls into the empty parking lot of the Friends Church and kills the engine. 

“Too bad it doesn’t have four.” Puck eyes Sebastian. “Guess I could just punch him.”

Sebastian makes another muffled noise of protest, but Kurt looks cheered up by the idea. “Maybe a little one?” he suggests.

“I do have a lot of pent up frustration today,” Puck agrees. “Once we get the IDs. That way he’ll be well-behaved while we drive.”

“And if he tries to get loose, you have my blessing to beat the ever-loving shit out of him,” Kurt says gleefully. “Have fun waiting for us, Sebastian!”

Sebastian mumbles something that sounds like a suggestion that Kurt go fuck himself, but Kurt’s already getting out of the car, locking it behind himself as soon as Puck’s door is open. “If this joker makes my last name Feinstein or Greenberg, I’m beating him up, too,” Puck informs Kurt as they walk towards the shed. 

“I was just hoping to avoid any obvious Broadway references,” Kurt confesses. “Or a Hawaiian license.” He reaches up and raps on the shed door. It creaks open slowly, revealing a surprisingly neat workshop filled with equipment that includes a camera and tripod, several printers, and an industrial die-cutter.

“Can I help you?” asks the man standing by the white backdrop set up across from the camera. He has a thick eastern European accent and an equally thick black mustache. 

“Are you Jerry?” Kurt asks.

“That boy again!” the exclaims in apparent disgust. “Time and time again I tell him, my name is _not_ Jerry. This boy is a friend of you?”

“No. No, he’s really not,” Kurt assures him, shaking his head. 

“You need IDs?” not–Jerry asks. “Seventy-five. Cash money.”

“One twenty-five for two,” Puck breaks in, because Sebastian’s probably been cheating not–Jerry by telling people sixty. Puck still isn’t going to pay full-price, but looking generous, even by five dollars, never hurt anything. 

“You have cash?” not–Jerry asks. Kurt looks at Puck before nodding. “Good. You, skinny one,” not–Jerry gestures at Kurt. “Stand in front of the screen.”

“But continental US,” Puck adds. 

“Yes, yes. I only make Hawaii and Alaska for the rude boy,” not–Jerry says, waving his hand dismissively. “Now, smile, skinny boy.”

Kurt bares his teeth in an approximation of a smile, not–Jerry presses a button on the camera, and the flash goes off, overly bright in the small room. Kurt blinks his eyes rapidly as not–Jerry points at Puck.

“And you, mohawk. Go stand.”

“Actually— do you have a razor or something?” Puck says, wincing. 

“Red bin. You get hair on the floor, you clean it up,” not–Jerry says.

“Help,” Puck mouths to Kurt, looking through the red bin. Kurt elbows Puck out of the way, finding a pair of ancient looking clippers and three slightly cracked guards. 

“So, short, shorter, or buzzcut?” Kurt offers. 

“Uh, just no mohawk was as far as I got,” Puck admits. 

“You want me to just do it?” Kurt asks.

“Yeah.” Puck sighs. “It’s just hair, right?”

“Right,” Kurt says bracingly, with an encouraging smile. “You can grow it back when this is all over.” He presses on Puck’s shoulders, encouraging him to sit on the chair next to the bin. “Ready?”

Puck snorts. “Go for it.”

Kurt turns on the clippers and runs his fingers through Puck’s mohawk, following them with the clippers. His fingers continue to move gently back and forth across Puck’s head as pieces of hair fall around Puck’s face and shoulders. When Kurt turns off the clippers, he dusts off Puck’s shoulders and runs his hand over Puck’s head one more time.

“Oh!” Kurt says in surprise.

“What?” Puck asks, narrowing his eyes. “I’m not bleeding or anything, am I?”

“No, it’s just…” Kurt takes Puck’s chin between his thumb and forefinger, moving Puck’s head from side to side. “You look like a Marine who just got back from a tour of duty.”

“Huh.” Puck stands up and manages a smirk at Kurt as he heads towards the screen for his picture. “Military look do it for you?”

“I just never really considered it before, is all,” Kurt says, blushing as he looks away. 

“You!” not–Jerry barks at Kurt. “Broom! Sweep!” Kurt picks up a broom that’s leaning against the far wall and starts sweeping up the hair on the floor, and not–Jerry turns his attention back to Puck. “And you, less smile, you look like a teenager.”

“Imagine that,” Puck mutters, frowning at the camera instead.

“Yes, perfect,” not–Jerry says, snapping the picture with another sun–going–supernova flash. “Now, you go and come back in twenty minutes. Leave the cash.”

Kurt looks concerned. “I think I’d be more comfortable if we held on to the money until we—”

“Leave the cash. Come back in twenty minutes,” not–Jerry says.

“We’ll just wait outside,” Puck says under his breath to Kurt. “That way he can’t run with the money.” Kurt nods in agreement, and the two of them exit the shed, sitting down on the small concrete pad outside the shed.

“It looks nice,” Kurt says.

Puck runs his hand over his head, feeling a little exposed without the mohawk. “Yeah? Surprised you didn’t just shave it all.”

“I tried to give you something to work with,” Kurt says with a little shrug. “You really do look like a Marine.”

“Some people like that kind of thing, at least.” Puck sighs. “Or so I’ve heard.”

Kurt nods once, then they sit in silence for several minutes before Kurt asks, “Are you scared?”

“I should be,” Puck acknowledges. “But like I said, I’ll probably be in prison or dead in another eighteen years, so hey, maybe I’m just getting a head start.”

“Don’t say that,” Kurt chides him. “But… I’m not scared, either. I know I should be, but honestly this is all kind of—” He stops abruptly and giggles.

“Exciting?” Puck supplies, grinning. “Interesting? Fun?”

“All of the above,” Kurt replies. 

Puck sighs, still grinning a little. “I’m guessing you’d either kick the shit out of me or use that stun gun on me if I kissed you right now, wouldn’t you?”

“Oh!” Kurt says. Both his hands come up, one fluttering around like a moth, the other touching his neck just above the collar of his shirt. “Puck, I—”

“Twenty minutes is up!” not–Jerry announces, pushing the door of the shed open. 

Puck looks up at not–Jerry and glares, holding out his hand. Not–Jerry ignores him, handing the first ID to Kurt.

“For you, Tyler Johnson from California, age twenty-one,” not–Jerry says. “And you,” he says to Puck, “Robert Rodriguez from Arizona, age twenty-two. Now take your new lives and go, my reruns of _How I Met Your Mother_ are on in fifteen minutes. Shoo. Shoo!”

“We’ll tell the rude kid you moved,” Puck offers, even if not–Jerry is kind of a cockblocker. He stands up and pockets the new ID. “Too bad I don’t speak Spanish,” he says to Kurt as they start to walk back to the car.

“Maybe you’re third generation,” Kurt suggests. “Do you think Sebastian tried to escape? I’d really love to stun him again.”

“Yeah, that’s a good call.” Puck shrugs. “Why don’t you save it for when we drop him off at the Lima Bean?”

“Who said anything about dropping him off at the Lima Bean?” Kurt says innocently. He presses the button on his keyfob to unlock to the car, which turns on the interior lights, and Puck can see Sebastian sit upright in the backseat.

“Well, we could get some beer and pour it on him, make it look like he was on a bender,” Puck says.

“I think we see if he can be useful later. Either way, I don’t want him to be able to go to the police until we’ve made some progress on the bucket,” Kurt says. “On to Indiana?”

“Sure. Let’s get us some food.” Puck grins at Sebastian. “Not for him.”

“If he’s lucky,” Kurt says, as he sits down in the driver’s seat and fastens his seat belt, “we’ll stop and let him take a bathroom break on the side of the road.”

“I don’t want to smell piss.” Puck drops back in his seat. “He’s really kind of rude, didn’t even compliment my haircut.”

“He’s wearing a blindfold, Puck.”

“And he’s gagged, but he shouldn’t let little details like that stop him.”

They drive for close to an hour through a whole lot of nothing, before they see red and blue flashing lights ahead. “Oh, shit,” Kurt says under his breath. “There’s at least three cop cars up there!”

“Probably DUI check,” Puck says, “but they’d probably love to talk to our trussed-up friend.” Puck laughs. “I might be able to convince them it’s a kinky threesome, but just in case, turn left there.” He gestures towards the next intersection. 

Kurt turns left, using his turn signal, and none of the flashing lights follow them. He breathes a sigh of relief. “Ok, now I’d really like a bathroom break. Maybe we could find a bar and use our IDs.”

Puck grins. “When we finally ditch the baggage back there,” he says, pointing his thumb at the bucket and Sebastian as well, “I’m buying.”

“Okay,” Kurt agrees. “For now, is Taco Bell an acceptable alternative?”

“Sure.” Puck nods, grinning to himself a little, because wanting to find a bar just to use a fake ID? Doesn’t sound like someone who actually likes boring. “I love those fresco burritos.”

Kurt pulls into the Taco Bell parking lot. "Drive-through, or did we want to at least run in for the bathrooms?"

“You go in first, I’ll sit out here with Smarmy,” Puck offers.

“Thanks,” Kurt says. He parks in a spot near the back of the Taco Bell. “Text me if anything happens and we have to leave fast.” He tosses the keys to Puck and gets out of the Navigator, walking towards the Taco Bell. Sebastian makes a muffled complaint.

“I think you’ll get bored with Blaine,” Puck says as if they’re in the middle of a conversation. “But it’s your choice. You do realize, as short as he is, his pants are still all too short?”

Sebastian mumbles something that could be “I'll take them off” or “fuck off.” Either way, it definitely ends with “off”.

“I’m just saying, don’t realize your mistake and come after Kurt, then,” Puck tries to explain, then falls silent as Kurt returns. “I’ll grab food while I’m in there,” Puck offers. “Tacos? Burritos? Gordita?”

“Anything with chicken is fine,” Kurt says. “Maybe some kind of combo. You should grab some extra napkins, too, if you don't mind.”

“Extra napkins, check,” Puck agrees. He heads into the bathroom and then studies himself in the mirror, since no one else is in there. Kurt’s right; he does look like he could pass for a tanned Marine. It’s not a bad look, exactly, but he didn’t have a choice about getting rid of the mohawk, either. 

Puck gets them each three burritos and a huge stack of napkins, then heads back out to the Navigator. “Chicken fresco burritos and a few inches of napkins,” he says almost cheerfully.

“Thank you!” Kurt says. “I'm starving! I had no idea how hungry crime would make me.”

Puck laughs, handing over the burritos. “You and Sebby have a nice chat?”

Sebastian growls through his gag, but Kurt just smiles placidly. “Oh yes. We really did.”

“I thought the name suited him,” Puck says, unwrapping the first of his three burritos. “Sorta like ‘subby’ but not quite.” Puck pauses. “Not that I think there’s anything wrong with that. Just think that _he_ probably does,” he adds more quietly, not quite sure why he’s explaining it. 

“Oh, I’m quite sure he do—” Kurt is interrupted by his phone, which starts vibrating and playing ‘Teenage Dream’ again. Kurt gives Puck a sudden, almost frightened look, before picking up the phone. “Hello?”

“Kurt!” Blaine’s voice is overly loud, and Puck can hear it clearly. “Kurt, I saw Finn just a bit ago and he has no idea where you are! What’s going on?”

“I’m—”

“I’m really worried about you, Kurt. Puckerman isn’t forcing you to do anything is he? Where are you? I’m going to drive to your house, you should meet me there.”

“No!” Kurt squawks. “No, Blaine, I think that’s a bad idea! Don’t go to my house. I’m just—”

Sebastian decides that now seems like a good time to start groaning and mumbling behind his gag again, throwing his body around in the backseat. Puck rolls his eyes and turns in his seat, grabbing Sebastian’s shirt and jerking him forward before throwing him back against the seat. “Shut up,” he hisses. 

“Kurt! What was that noise?” Blaine says. “Okay, Tina and Mercedes and I are going to start looking for you—”

“I promise I’ll explain when I’m back,” Kurt pleads. “I’m fine, I promise! I just need to take care of something first.”

“Back?!” Puck isn’t sure if Blaine sounds merely alarmed or like he’s going to have a medical crisis of some kind. “Where have you gone? Did _you_ kidnap _Puck_?”

“It’s a… a…” Kurt looks around wildly. “Family emergency! My dad’s side of the family. Puck’s just, uh. He’s just taking advantage of the lift out to, uh. Fort… Wayne…?”

Puck shakes his head slowly, sighing, as Blaine continues. “Indiana? Kurt, I’m— why didn’t you tell me there was a family emergency? And why doesn’t Finn know about it?”

“It’s embarrassing. My, uh. Aunt! Didn’t want me to talk about it.” Kurt looks at Puck again and mouths, “I didn’t know what to say!”

“Just hang up!” Puck mouths back. 

“I love you,” Kurt says into the phone. “I’ll let you know when I’m back!” He quickly ends the call and powers off the phone, dropping it like it’s a venomous snake or something into the console between the seats. “Oh, crap!”

“Still convincing,” Puck mutters, not sure if Kurt can hear him or not. “When we get back to Winchester Road, hang a left, so we can go around Fort Wayne,” he tells Kurt. “And maybe you want to wait a day or two to tell him you’re back.”

“That might be wise,” Kurt says. 

“We gonna sleep in Indiana?” Puck asks, gesturing towards the clock. 

“Crap,” Kurt repeats. “I guess so. I’m thinking a hotel might be out of the question?”

“Well, it’s not like anyone—except Blaine—is looking for you,” Puck points out. “Still, probably no place with personal attention, like the fancy ones.”

“We’ll drive a little farther and see what we find, I guess,” Kurt says. “Sebastian can sleep in the tub.”

“Can we lock him in the bathroom?” Puck muses. “Maybe we should stop and get some Nyquil at a Walgreens.”

“Sure, if we pass a Walgreens. Get the green kind, it’s the nastiest.”

They reach the city limits for Huntington and wind through the streets until they spot a Walgreens sign. Kurt parks on the unlit side for Puck to run in, and Puck grins at him once as he walks in. 

Puck grabs a basket and winds through the aisles. Two bottles of Nyquil with sleep aid first, then he looks at the condom display consideringly. “I’ll get pop first,” Puck says to himself, and he picks up four bottles of pop, an assortment of candy, some gum, and a pack of Altoids before going back to the condoms. He grabs a big box of condoms and some lube, then wanders the aisles, trying to think of anything else they might need. 

He ends up on the aisle with hair dye, and nods to himself. Kurt’s ID has him with dark hair, but it couldn’t hurt to lighten it. He picks out two different colors, so Kurt has some choices, and then stares at the magazines before grabbing one of them, too. 

The cashier says something about did he find everything he needed, which makes Puck give the guy a huge grin and a nod. Puck heads back to the Navigator, feeling almost pleased with himself. 

“Got everything we need,” he tells Kurt. 

“Good. Now we just need to find a place to stay, and we can deal with Toby of no last name in the morning,” Kurt says. 

They drive a little more, before Puck sees the bright neon sign that looks like something out of a B movie. “Sheryl Manor Motel,” Puck reads. “Sounds like the place for us.” 

Kurt nods and pulls up in front of the small office. “Twenty-four hour check in. Sounds like us. I’ll go in this time.” He hops out of the car and goes into the office. 

Sebastian mumbles something behind his gag, though it’s a much more pitiful mumble than the earlier ones. “Oh, shut up,” Puck says, still feeling cheerful. “We’ll give you a pillow and blanket for the tub, and move you out of it before we shower in the morning.”

Kurt returns with a key attached to a large wooden fob, which he holds up in front of his face and dangles it, smiling. As he sits down in the driver’s seat, he announces, “Room seven.”

“Awesome. Hey, I saw a sign for a KMart, in the morning we should go buy some non-descript clothes.” He looks over at Kurt and makes a face. “You stand out. Not in a bad way, but still.”

Kurt sighs as he backs out of the space in front of the office and drives down the row to room seven. “It can’t be helped, I guess.”

“You’re like a peacock or something.” Puck shrugs. “Hey, Sebby, anyone going to actually miss you tonight?” 

“Mmphmm!”

“I think that’s a no,” Kurt says. He backs into the spot directly in front of the room, frowning. “How are we getting him in? I still have one charge left.” Sebastian squawks behind the gag and flops around like a fish.

“I’ll throw him over my shoulder,” Puck offers. “Save the charge for the morning. Unless you can charge it here overnight?”

“It takes a special battery,” Kurt says sadly. 

“Yeah, too bad.” Puck frowns. “Okay, go in and put a blanket or something in the tub, and I’ll bring him in.” 

Kurt nods and gets out of the car, unlocking the door and going into the room. Sebastian flops around a few more times, grumbling into the gag.

“Oh, shut it,” Puck says, grabbing the bag from Walgreens and the bucket in one hand before hoisting Sebastian over his shoulder. “We could have just strangled you with one the scarves after we got the IDs. Instead, we’re taking you on our road trip.” Puck closes the door with his leg and heads inside, dropping the bag and bucket before going straight to the tub. “Nighty-night,” Puck says to Sebastian. “Kurt, you want to find the Nyquil in the bag?” 

“Sure,” Kurt says, digging into the bag. He freezes after a moment of rustling around. “Uh, Puck? Did you and Sebastian have plans?” He holds up the box of condoms.

Puck makes a face. “I don’t think you could pay me enough to do it with him.” He nudges Sebastian with his foot. “You know he’d be the kind to take whatever you did and throw it back in your face as soon as it was over.”

“Uh-huh,” Kurt says skeptically, looking at Puck askance. He retrieves the bottle of Nyquil and pours a big cupful. “You want to ungag him?”

“Seriously, I’ve met people like him before,” Puck continues, untying the mouth-scarf. “Try to get you to beg and plead, and bam, fifteen minutes after they come, they’re imitating you and laughing. Can’t you see it?” He holds out his hand for the cup of Nyquil. Kurt puts it in Puck’s hand, and Puck tilts Sebastian’s head back to pour it in and make him swallow. 

“I never really thought about it that way,” Kurt says. He sounds and looks mystified. “I haven’t ever— I just don’t have that much experience, I suppose.”

Puck ties the gag back on Sebastian and turns out the light, pulling the bathroom door closed. “I mean, it’s a jerk move, but some people are jerks in bed. Whether they are or not out of it.” Puck flops down on the bed that still has a bedspread. “There’s pop and gum and shit in there, too.” 

Kurt stands at the foot of the bed Puck’s on, hands on hips. “Excuse me?”

“Pop and gum and candy and… crap?” Puck offers. 

“And you get the only bed with a real blanket because?” Puck starts to laugh. “What? What’s so funny?” Kurt demands. 

“Who said I was sleeping here by myself?” Puck manages. 

“Sebastian’s in the tub,” Kurt says.

“And?”

“So who are you sleeping with, exactly?”

“My imaginary friend,” Puck deadpans. “Oh, there’s one of those dude magazines in there, too.”

“Dude maga— did you buy _porn_?” Kurt asks.

“What? No, they don’t sell porn at Walgreens,” Puck says with a snort. “One of those dude-clothes magazines.” 

“Oh,” Kurt says. “Do you mean _GQ_?”

“Yeah, that,” Puck says, nodding. “I didn’t think either one of us wanted to read _Redbook_.”

“Did you want to read _GQ_?”

“Tim Tebow, best restaurants in America… sounded better than fifteen snacks to make me skinny.”

“Hmm.” Kurt looks thoughtful for a moment. “Ok, move over a little.”

Puck scoots to one side, propping himself up on his elbows and watching Kurt get the magazine out of the bag. He sits on the bed next to Puck and opens the magazine. “This month’s looks like a good one,” Kurt says. 

“I have no idea what a style hero is, though,” Puck admits. 

“I guess we’ll have to find out,” Kurt says, settling back against the pillow and flipping through to that section. 

“Do people really pay that much for clothes?” Puck asks. 

“It can be an investment to look that good,” Kurt says.

“Huh.” Puck starts to run his hand down his mohawk, then remembers with a start that it’s not actually there. “Just seems like it makes things uneven, right out of the gate.”

“What do you mean?” Kurt asks. He turns the page and seems to unconsciously lean more towards Puck, their shoulders touching. 

“Okay, say next year, you and me, we ended up working at the same place. Selling stuff. You’re gonna get more sales out of the gate, ’cause you can afford nicer clothes from the beginning, and then that just keeps it rolling like that. You make more sales to the people spending more money, so you get more commissions, so you can buy even more expensive clothes. And me, I’m doing good, right, because I’m hot and I can match my socks at least, but according to the rich people, I’m not buying the right clothes.”

“I don’t think that’s true at all,” Kurt argues. “I think you’d definitely have the advantage with female customers, and let’s be honest here, most of the gay male ones as well, regardless of what you’re wearing. I have to dress nicely to get people to notice me. You’ve got that _je ne sais quoi_ that I couldn’t compete with.”

“I don’t even know what language that is. And, fine, sure, _maybe_ in Lima, but anywhere bigger? Nah.” Puck shakes his head twice. “Especially not with older customers.”

“It’s French. It means a certain indefinable quality, something that you can’t explain or fake,” Kurt explains. “And I think you’d do just fine, if sales were even something you wanted to do. Which, is it, by the way?”

Puck shrugs. “I think I _could_ do it. I’m just saying that if you make everything else equal, the person who starts out with more money to spend on their appearance is going to keep making more money.” 

“You may be right,” Kurt concedes. “I couldn’t afford most of these clothes when they’re in season, either. They are nice to look at, though, don’t you think?”

“My guns’d rip some of them,” Puck says with a smirk. “I don’t think I’m the bowtie type. Or the kilt type.”

“You’d have to get them tailored. And _pfft_ , everyone’s the kilt type. I’m sure you have the legs for it.”

“You think so?” Puck grins. “I could show you and you could let me know for sure.”

Kurt’s face flushes, but he nods. “In the name of fashion,” he says.

“If that’s what helps you sleep at night,” Puck agrees, unzipping his jeans and pulling them off before dropping them in the floor to the side of the bed. “Need a closer look?”

“You should do a runway walk,” Kurt instructs. “That’s the only way to really envision how the fabric will fall on your frame.”

“Uh-huh,” Puck says skeptically, standing up. “I only know how to walk one way.” 

“Oh, don’t worry about that. I can offer pointers.”

Puck walks towards the motel room door, looking over his shoulder with his eyebrows raised. 

“No, keep your back straighter,” Kurt says. “One hand on your hip when you reach the end of the runway, lead with your pelvis on the turn and walk back.”

Puck thinks about grumbling, but he does as instructed, or at least as close as he can manage, then walks back to the bed, towards Kurt, and smirks a little. “Well?”

Kurt gives him a little golf clap, looking him up and down. “I think you’re right that a traditional wool tartan wouldn’t look quite right on you, not with legs like that. You need a more structured, sturdier fabric, but maybe a little shorter than traditional wear.”

“Oh, so you want more of my legs on view?” Puck asks, his smirk getting wider. 

Kurt’s flush deepens and he looks flustered. “I just meant from a fashion standpoint!”

“So if I take my T-shirt off, you can give me more pointers?” Puck says, starting to reach to pull his shirt off. 

“Oh! No, that won’t be necessary!” Kurt’s face turns crimson. “I have a boyfriend!”

“Hey, you said it yourself,” Puck says. “Just from a fashion standpoint.”

“Well, I could alter some clothes for you when we get back to Lima, if you think it would give you a professional advantage,” Kurt offers, pointedly looking away from Puck. “So in that sense, I suppose it would be beneficial to know what I’m working with. _On_! Working on!”

“I don’t really like to sleep in a shirt, anyway,” Puck says, pulling off his T-shirt and throwing it on top of his jeans. “You don’t mind, right?” 

“I wouldn’t want to inconvenience you any more than necessary,” Kurt says evasively, still not making eye contact. “Whatever makes you most comfortable. I usually sleep in a weather–appropriate coordinated pajama set, but that isn’t an option here.”

“I think you were just trying to say you sleep in pajamas, but that was a lot of words.” Puck sits back on the bed, just in his underwear, and leans towards Kurt and the magazine. “I could rock that V-neck thing, though.”

“Not in yellow, though,” Kurt says. “With your skin tone, red or maybe a deep green.”

“Nana says green brings out my eyes.” Puck shrugs. “But she also tried to convince me that going to services was sexy, so I wasn’t sure if I should believe her. Yarmulkes? Not sexy.” 

“No, I wouldn’t think so,” Kurt agrees. 

“About the yarmulkes or the green?” Puck asks, just to clarify.

“Oh, the yarmulkes. I’ve never found religious wear to be particularly sexy, no.”

“Yeah, I remember that clusterfuck,” Puck says with a nod. “Is she right about the green?”

“Yes, she’s right,” Kurt says, looking back down at the magazine again. “You should wear it more often. Maybe take this forced haircut as a chance for a style makeover, start dressing yourself up a little bit.”

“My typical style is what’s clean and cheap,” Puck points out. “I _usually_ buy my clothes at KMart.”

“If you’re interested, I’d be happy to help,” Kurt offers. “If you’ve got it, flaunt it, is all I’m saying.”

“And would that help be hands-on?” Puck asks, grinning at Kurt. 

“If I’m tailoring anything for you, I’ll have to take some measurements, check the fit…” Kurt turns another page, but he doesn’t actually look like he’s reading the article anymore.

“That’d be an incentive,” Puck says. “So you’re saying I should keep my hair like this?”

“It’s flattering. Much more so than the mohawk,” Kurt says. 

“Nothing really to grip, though,” Puck muses. “You don’t think that’s a downside?”

Kurt’s neck and the side of his face that Puck can see turn pinkish again. “I really couldn’t say,” Kurt answers evasively, turning the next page in a way that could almost be described as aggressive. 

“Not a grabber?” Puck speculates. 

“You know, we should really consider going to sleep,” Kurt says, slapping the magazine closed. “Lots more kidnapping and heisting to do tomorrow, I’m sure.”

“Sure, we can get more comfortable,” Puck agrees, reaching over to turn off the lamp on the wall. “Want me to set the alarm clock?”

“Please. I’m hesitant to turn my phone back on to use the alarm,” Kurt admits. 

Puck figures out how to change the alarm time, then turns it on before turning back around and frowning. “Might want to ditch the clothes. I know we don’t have your pajama–things…” 

“No, I’ll be fine!”

“Dude, that’s not going to be comfortable.” Puck slides under the covers. “Come on, you don’t want to wake up with all of that twisted around on you.” 

Kurt sighs loudly. “Fine.” After some wriggling and the sound of zippers being undone, Kurt drops his clothes to the floor. “Just… remember I have a boyfriend,” Kurt says as he gets under the covers, too.

“Uh-huh.” Puck stretches. “Maybe crime’s like Vegas. What happens while kidnapping and hunting people down stays on the road.” 

“I’ve never been to Vegas,” Kurt muses. He rolls onto his side, away from Puck. 

“So the boyfriend’s the only objection here?” Puck asks. “Just to clarify.” 

“Goodnight, Puck,” Kurt says. 

Puck grins to himself. “That was a yes.” 

A few minutes pass in silence, then Kurt says, in a strange voice, like he’s surprised with himself for admitting it, “It wasn’t a no.”

Puck wakes up in the middle of a great dream. He can’t remember the details, but he’s waking up happy, and he realizes after another moment that he and Kurt are wrapped around each other. Puck’s mouth is on Kurt’s neck, in fact, moving slowly over the skin, and Kurt is letting out little moans in his sleep. Puck tries to figure out why in the world he woke up, because clearly he could have proceeded guilt-free if he’d stayed asleep, and then hears thumping from the bathroom.

Right. Sebastian in the tub. “Cockblocker,” Puck mutters under his breath in the direction of the bathroom, then turns back to Kurt. “You gotta ditch that short-pants boyfriend of yours,” he adds, still quiet. 

“Finn, stop banging on my door,” Kurt grumbles into the pillow. “You can eat the last bagel.”

“Yeah, not Finn,” Puck says, a little louder than before. “Smarmy Sebby’s up before the alarm.”

“This is why I’m never having kids,” Kurt whines, rolling over and rubbing his face with the back of his head. “Hi.”

“Hey.” Puck laughs. “He is a little bit like a toddler.” 

“I guess we have to let him use the bathroom and feed him at some point,” Kurt says. He starts to sit up and then looks down at himself. “Could, uh. You hand me my shirt? Or pants. Either will do.”

“Doesn’t really seem fair,” Puck says, not moving. 

“You’re wearing boxer briefs,” Kurt argues. “There’s no fair in this scenario.”

Puck thinks for a few moments, nodding slowly. “Okay, so you can buy something else at KMart,” he offers. “Why? What are you wearing? A thong or something?”

“No!” Kurt says. “Just, they’re a little less full-coverage than boxer briefs.”

“Too bad, that’d be hot,” Puck notes. “I’m not making you walk around the room or anything. Just to get your own clothes.” 

“Fine,” Kurt huffs. He throws off the blanket and quickly swings his legs over the edge of the bed, leaning to grab his pants and shirt, but not before Puck gets a good look at Kurt’s skimpy, bright blue briefs. 

“Hmm, that’s pretty hot, too,” Puck concedes. “I might change my mind about making you walk around.” 

“Puck!” 

“What?” Puck asks. “S’only fair. Or are you, I don’t know. Too good to be stared at or something?”

“Not letting you bait me,” Kurt says, pulling on his jeans, which in Puck’s opinion, are tight enough to be considered leggings.

“It was an honest question!” Puck protests. 

“I’m just not comfortable with that. Now come on, let’s take care of Sebastian so we can meet this Toby person and be done with that bucket, please.”

Puck rolls out of bed, shaking his head as he pulls on his jeans. “So it’s okay for you to check me out, but not the reverse? I don’t get it,” he admits. “But after Sebby’s pissed and retied, let’s get some breakfast at that drive-in we passed last night.”

“Fine. Coffee, too,” Kurt says. “You want me to deal with Sebastian?”

“Kinda was hoping to rough him up a little,” Puck admits, because he’s a little frustrated, and what he told Kurt was true, so it’d be better for Sebastian to blame more of it on Puck, if he ever were to talk. 

“Whatever you want,” Kurt says. “Need the stun gun?”

“Nah, save it.” Puck pulls on his T-shirt and heads into the bathroom. “Wakey-wakey, Sebby,” he says cheerfully, reaching down and hauling Sebastian up. He stands him in front of the toilet and undoes the blindfold. “Enjoy the light, it won’t last long.” 

Sebastian growls into the gag, mumbling a string of what’s probably the foulest swears he can think of. 

“Aww, sorry you’re unhappy.” Puck undoes Sebastian’s pants, making sure he looks properly disgusted. “Now piss.”

Sebastian grumbles something else and tries to shrug away from Puck, but the power of nature is apparently stronger than Sebastian’s desire to be an obstinate jackass, and he takes a good two minutes to empty his bladder. When the stream of piss finally stops, Puck shakes his head, grimacing. 

“Damn that stinks!” Puck waves his hand in front of his nose. “Also, you’re small. No wonder you play up the money and status thing to get guys.” He leans out of the bathroom. “Hey, Kurt, Sebby’s not very well-endowed. It’s almost sad.”

“I’m not surprised,” Kurt calls back. “The bigger the ego…”

Puck laughs, both at Kurt’s comment and the affronted look on Sebastian’s face. “Okay, okay, gotta zip this up,” Puck says, making another face. “Okay, Sebby. Blindfold time again. And please, try something, ’cause I’m dying to punch you.” 

Sebastian doesn’t try anything, though, and Puck gets the blindfold back on quickly. As they exit the bathroom, Kurt says, “I hope you washed your hands. I hate to think of what you might have come into contact with.”

Puck snorts and grins at that. “Yeah, you never know. Don’t forget the Walgreens bag. We might need some of that.” 

“I wish we’d thought about toothbrushes. I’ll get a piece of the gum at least,” Kurt says. He rifles through the bag and offers a piece to Puck before unwrapping one himself. “Oh, there’s—” He stops abruptly. “I did _not_ notice that last night.”

“The mints?” Puck says innocently. 

“So, the drive-in?” Kurt asks. “We’ll do a quick run and shove Sebastian into the car, then get on the road to Toby’s.”

“Sure,” Puck agrees, hoisting Sebastian over his shoulder again. “Maybe we should put him farther back, though, because of the drive-in.”

“I’ve got an emergency throw back there you can put over him, too,” Kurt suggests. “And if he squirms, you can use the stun gun.”

“Sounds good.” As they prepare to head out, Puck turns to Kurt. “Oh, so, do you prefer Tyler or a nickname? T.J., maybe?”

“You’re not honestly going to call me Tyler,” Kurt says. “That’s just if we need to show our IDs.”

“The way I figure it,” Puck explains as he shoves Sebastian in the back and covers him up, “is _Kurt_ has a boyfriend.” Puck shuts the door and grins at Kurt. “Tyler doesn’t.”

“Well, for all we know, Robert Rodriguez has a wife and two kids back in Arizona,” Kurt says. 

“Nah, he’s too young to get married,” Puck says. “I think I like ‘Rob’ better than ‘Robert’. Tyler and Rob, see?”

“I see,” Kurt says. He starts the car and pulls up in front of the office, running in to drop off the key, and then coming back. 

“The sadly single Tyler,” Puck adds as they head towards the drive-in. “Oh, you see the hair dye?”

“Yes,” Kurt says. “Is that for you or me?”

“I don’t have that much hair left to dye,” Puck points out. “Dunno if you’ll need it, but I thought it couldn’t hurt.” He squints, studying Kurt’s profile. “Blond could be a good look on you.” 

“It’ll dry out my hair,” Kurt laments, putting his hand up to his head. He turns into the drive-in, still patting his hair, and they manage to get food without Sebastian making a scene. Puck orders Sebastian a kids meal with a milk, and after they’ve pulled away, Puck crawls over the seats to ungag Sebastian and feed him. “Fuck, you’re right,” Puck says halfway through. “I’m not going to have any more.”

“Cats are good. Maybe just a house plant,” Kurt says.

“Cactus,” Puck offers. “Don’t even have to water ’em that often.” 

“And a cactus will remind us fondly of our time with Sebastian,” Kurt says. “Because I’d sooner have sex with the cactus.”

Puck starts to mention that Kurt’s talking about a single cactus reminding both of them, but he decides that the more important questions should be asked first. “But where would you stick it?” he asks, smirking a little. “Is there a kind with holes?”

“I never really thought about that part,” Kurt admits.

“That’s it for Sebby,” Puck says, climbing back into the front. “He’s really going to hate us by the time this is over. Tyler.”

“Rob,” Kurt says. “I guess we look for Toby now. Do you still have that address?”

Puck pulls it out of his jeans pocket. “But you’re going to have to turn your phone back on for at least a few minutes, for the map.”

Kurt winces. “Okay. Maybe you can just…” He gestures at the console. “Just in case, I really don’t want to read the texts.”

“I could answer ’em for you,” Puck offers, picking up Kurt’s phone and turning it on. “In case your dad or whoever’s looking for you, I mean.” 

“Do you think we should take the risk?” Kurt asks. “They could use them to pinpoint our location. Just get the map and turn it off again.”

“We should send one text just before we head back east, then,” Puck argues. “Make ’em think we’re heading towards Chicago or something.” He winces at the red number of Kurt’s texts. “Uh, you have thirty-seven texts from Blaine. Is he some kind of stalker?” 

“I’m sure he’s just worried about me,” Kurt says, his voice a little thin and strained. 

“Yeah, your _dad_ only sent five,” Puck counters. “Okay, map time… he’s on a cul-de-sac on Washington Street. Pretty simple directions.” Puck stares at the map for a few moments, committing it to memory, then looks at Kurt. “Sure you don’t want me to tell either of them anything?”

Kurt’s brow furrows. “Hmm. After we deal with this Toby?”

“Yeah.” Puck turns Kurt’s phone off and drops it back in the console. “Be thinking about it, I guess.” 

The drive to Toby’s takes about forty more minutes. The address turns out to be a tidy, unassuming little house, maybe a few years past needing repainted, but otherwise well-maintained. Kurt looks at the house suspiciously.

“You’re sure this is it?” Kurt asks.

“It’s the address we got,” Puck insists. He unbuckles and turns in his seat. “Sebby, be a good boy and stay quiet, and maybe we won’t beat you up before we use the stun gun again.”

Puck’s sure that if Sebastian weren’t blindfolded, he’d be glaring at Puck, but since he is blindfolded, Puck can pretend he doesn’t notice it. Puck pockets the list again and grabs the bucket as they climb out of the Navigator and head to the door. Kurt peers in through the small window near the front door, but when he looks back at Puck, he shrugs and shakes his head.

“May as well knock,” Kurt says. “You want to do the honors?”

“Sure.” Puck knocks twice, then steps back again, waiting. After a few moments, the door swings open, revealing the single most generically Midwestern–looking guy Puck’s ever seen, drying his hands on a kitchen towel.

“Can I help you boys?” 

“Hey. I’m Rob,” Puck says easily. “Are you Toby?” He lifts the bucket just enough to draw Toby’s attention to it.

Toby’s eyes widen, and he nods. “Well, golly. You boys had better come on in.” He steps back away from the doorway, creating a path for Kurt and Puck to walk in. 

“Thanks.” Puck smiles at him, since Toby is easily the least intimidating and most open of the bucket–fascists. He doesn’t really seem like a fascist, even. 

“You boys want a can of pop or some shortbread? I just took it out of the oven,” Toby says. 

“Sure, in a minute,” Puck agrees, looking at Kurt briefly. “We just want to know where to deliver this.”

“Well, that’s usually supposed to go to your drop-off,” Toby says. “D’you have a problem with your drop point?”

“Just someone dying,” Puck says with a snort. “And black suits crawling over another one.” Well, Rick Rickman hadn’t really been a drop point, but it was close enough. 

“Now, that _is_ a pickle,” Toby remarks, shaking his head. “Sorry to hear about all the trouble you’re having. Who exactly told you to come to me with it?”

“Oh, a couple of people,” Puck says casually. “Jorge, for starters.” He looks at Kurt and grins as he says ‘Jorge’. 

“I hate to have to tell you boys this, not when you’ve already had so much bad news, but I’m not an approved drop point,” Toby says apologetically. “And you know how it is, bureaucracy. Can’t let the middle-man put his hands on the product.” 

“We’re really just trying to get it to the right place,” Kurt explains. “We’re not even middle men. We’re bottom men. We’re just trying to deliver the product so everybody can go home happy.”

“Bottom men?” Puck mouths at Kurt. “Really?” 

“Improvising,” Kurt hisses at him.

“You know, I might be able to help you boys out,” Toby says. “Might take me a few minutes to make the calls. Did your friend out in the car want some shortbread, too?”

“Oh, shit,” Kurt mouths to Puck.

“Yeah, that’d be great,” Puck says. “We’ll take that now.” He knows that _now_ , he probably looks scared, and he tenses, waiting for Toby to turn around and head for the shortbread. 

“Alrighty,” Toby says, with a pleasant smile. “You boys make yourselves comfortable in here. Keep your feet off the coffee table if you don’t mind. That thing scuffs like the dickens.” He turns and walks into the kitchen. Puck leans forward to peer into the kitchen, and when he sees inside the pantry, he can feel himself blanch. 

“Shit,” he mutters to Kurt. The pantry is more like a storage rack for a torture chamber, knives and shackles and whips and things that Puck doesn’t really know what they are. “ _Run_ ,” he adds. He turns towards the door, bucket in one hand, and grabs Kurt’s hand with the other. “Run!”

“What?” Kurt whispers. “Why?”

Puck pulls Kurt after him quickly. “Whips!” Puck whispers. “And other stuff!”

“Oh my God!” Kurt squeaks. “Should we try to go out the back?”

“You boys want that pop, too, or did you want me to brew you up a pot of coffee?” Toby calls from the kitchen.

“Pop’s fine!” Puck yells back, then pushes the door open, pulling Kurt with him and running for the Navigator. “Shit shit shit!”

Kurt digs out the keys as they run, but as he goes to unlock the door, he fumbles them and drops them on the ground. “Shit!” He leans over and grabs the keys, unlocking the door with the button. They both pull their doors open, climbing into the Navigator, and Kurt starts backing out of the driveway before the doors are even closed. The tires screech and spin out for a second as Kurt crosses over part of Toby’s lawn, but then Kurt throws the car into drive and they speed off down the road.

Puck looks behind them to see Toby on his front porch, in elbow-length rubber gloves, some kind of spikey long thing in one hand, and manacles in the other. “Holy fucking shit,” Puck breathes. “I’m not introducing myself as Rob again. Hell, after I get rid of that thing, I might want to _stay_ Rob.”

“What do we do now?” Kurt asks frantically. “Is he following us? What do I do, Puck?”

Puck reaches for Kurt’s phone and turns it on. “I think we can go west a little farther, then turn north. We’ll head back east on state road fourteen. Tell me what to send before we turn north.” 

“My dad. Tell him everything’s fine, and I love him,” Kurt says. 

“Got it.” Puck types it out and hits send. “Okay, done. Can I break up with Blaine for you?”

“Puck! Is now really the time for that?”

“Yes!” Puck retorts. “When else are you going to do it?”

“I can’t make important decisions right now!” Kurt yells. “Just turn the phone off and tell me where to turn!”

“Five blocks,” Puck says. “C’mon.” 

“No! I’m not letting you break up with him for me!”

“Fine,” Puck grumbles, turning off the phone. “You can work on composing the perfect text and send it before we turn back east.”

“I just want to go back to my nice, safe life,” Kurt whines. “I want my pedicures and my pajamas, and a glass of warm milk.”

“Bullshit,” Puck says. “You were doing fine until the whips came out, which, yeah.” Puck shakes his head. “Not my thing, either. But anyway, you don’t like boring. I know that. And you know it, too.”

“I don’t want this kind of excitement in my life!” Kurt insists. 

“Take the guns out of the picture, and I say, yeah, you do.” Puck gives Kurt a long look. “We should ditch this and Sebastian, pick up another car, and we’ll do your hair then, too.”

“My baby?” Kurt says. “ _And_ my hair? This is just too much. How can you say I like this?”

Puck laughs. “I’ll steal us something nice, okay? And well.” He reaches halfway across the console and gestures. “Yeah, that tells me you _really_ hate it. Besides, I think you’ll look pretty hot with blond hair.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Kurt mumbles, but he hunches over the wheel, shifting his hips to the side. 

“Sure you don’t, _Tyler_ ,” Puck says, still grinning. “Okay, you’ve got six miles now, until we turn east. Be thinking.” 

Kurt drives the six miles with his eyes constantly darting to the rearview mirror, the Navigator's speed getting progressively faster. He white-knuckles through the sharp turn eastward. 

“What do you want me to type?” Puck asks, picking up the phone and waving it back and forth. 

“What? _That’s_ what I was supposed to be thinking about?” Kurt demands. “I am not discussing this any further until we’ve changed out the car, at least. And it may still be contingent upon how my hair looks!”

“What were _you_ thinking about?” Puck asks, glancing down at Kurt again. “Your raging boner that, by the way, is still there?”

“I do not have a— I _don’t_!” 

“I’m staring at it,” Puck points out.

“Stop staring at it!” Kurt replies.

“Why?”

“Oh my God!”

“Mmmfph!” Sebastian adds from the far back.

“Shut up!” Puck and Kurt both yell in unison. 

“It was an actual question,” Puck continues at a normal volume. “Why should I stop staring at it?” 

“Because if you ignore it, maybe it’ll go away!” Kurt says, turning red. 

Puck grins. “You mean that if I pay attention to it…” he trails off. “Nice.” 

“I’m leaving you and Sebastian back there on the side of the road with the goddamn bucket when we get to Fort Wayne,” Kurt says. “Just you wait.”

“Yeah, right.” Puck laughs and shakes his head. “Admit it, you’re looking forward to the makeover.”

“Please turn on the radio and stop talking,” Kurt pleads. “I’m not having this discussion in front of Woody the Peckerhead back there!”

“Not a no,” Puck mutters, grinning to himself. “Nice one,” he says to Kurt. “It’s a small pecker, though.”

“It was actually Finn’s insult for him,” Kurt confesses. “It’s a good one.”

“Yeah, I like it,” Puck says, nodding. He doesn’t turn on the radio, and he doesn’t stop looking over at Kurt or Kurt’s definitely–still–present erection, but he does stop talking while they drive towards Fort Wayne. 

As they get closer, Puck starts looking for likely places to ditch the Navigator, as well as find another car to steal. “Up on the right, turn right and then into that church,” Puck says. “We’ll leave it, no one’ll expect it to leave for hours.” He scans the surrounding area. “We can do your hair there, or the CVS across the street, and then there’s another church.” 

“Leave Sebastian in the back, or ditch him in a bathroom?” Kurt asks. He turns into the church parking lot and finds a spot between two other larger vehicles. 

“Leave him, it’s not hot, and no one’ll hear him out here. Otherwise we’d have to use the last charge on the stun gun,” Puck says. He picks up the Walgreens bag and the bucket, and looks around the Navigator. “You want to try to blend in with the church crowd, use their bathrooms? It looks like they have a gym, so there’s probably showers.”

“I’m not sure I look like I’m on my way to church,” Kurt says. “I guess we can try.”

“Worst happens, I’ll pretend I had a… what are they called? Conversion experience or something? And cry all over one of them, and you can be my long-suffering friend.” Puck smirks. “Bye, Sebby!”

“On the off chance that I ever get my baby back, I hope he doesn’t pee on the seats,” Kurt says. 

“He’d have to piss himself along the way,” Puck points out, shutting the door and heading towards the gym–looking building. “And then you’d be able to tell people he pissed his pants.”

“I’m sure that knowledge alone will keep him from telling the police we kidnapped him and held him for twenty-four hours,” Kurt notes. 

“Also I know how big his dick is,” Puck adds. “I should’ve taken a picture for blackmail.”

“He’s going to tell. We’re going to jail at some point, if we don’t die.”

Puck shrugs as they reach the door. “Maybe. Maybe not. He might hold it over us for years, instead.” He peers through. “Looks like everyone’s in a room or something. Ready?”

“Oh my God, this is going to go so badly,” Kurt says. “My hair.”

“Hey, like you told me, it’ll grow.” Puck opens the door and falls silent, trying to find a bathroom. It takes two wrong hallways before he spots a bathroom/locker room, and he drags Kurt in behind him, checking for anyone in it before locking it. “Handy they have a lock.”

“It is indeed,” Kurt says, with a dramatic sigh. “Try not to bleach my clothes, too.”

“Aren’t you supposed to take ’em off if you don’t have a curtain thing?” Puck grins. “No, wait, I know.” He goes down to the two showers in the locker room, and removes one of the curtains. “Okay, cut first or color first?”

“Color first. If it turns out badly, we can cut it all off,” Kurt says. “I’m just going to take my shirt off, then you can put the curtain on my, I guess.” He starts to unfasten his shirt, carefully folding it and setting it to the side. 

“Nah, I think you were right.” Puck runs his hand over his hair. “You can’t rock this look.” He shakes out the curtain and puts it around Kurt. “Guess you need to hold it on.”

Kurt grips the edges of the curtain and closes his eyes. “Just do it before I change my mind.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Puck mutters, reading through the directions. It seems simple enough; put the ‘lightening mixture’ on all of Kurt’s hair, and then wait. He shrugs and coats all of Kurt’s hair, though admittedly he pays less attention to the ends; he’s just going to cut them off anyway. “Okay, waiting time,” Puck announces once the bottle is empty. 

“Tell me if it turns orange,” Kurt says. “I’m just going to keep my eyes closed until it’s done. Talk to me about something.”

“You sure about that?” Puck teases. 

“Otherwise I’ll just sit here and start crying about my hair.”

“Okay, serious question. Why are you dating Blaine? And don’t give me that about common interests, ’cause Finn and I have common interests, but I never wanted to date him.”

“Well,” Kurt says, with a little _hmph_ at the end. 

Puck rolls his eyes. “No, I mean it, c’mon. Common interests are more of a friend-thing, and you know it.”

“Fine, I know it,” Kurt concedes. “He just really seemed like somebody who had it together, when I first met him at Dalton. It was impressive, seeing someone not afraid to be himself like that.”

“Okay, fair enough.” Puck nods. “But you didn’t start dating him then. And, well, he doesn’t seem like someone who has it together that much now, if we’re being honest.”

“He wasn’t interested in me then. Also, I honestly thought he was older, the way the other Warblers treated him. I thought Senior Member meant he was a senior himself, which is obviously not the case,” Kurt says. 

“Huh. So— fair to say you had a crush, and he eventually noticed?” Puck asks, waiting to see if Kurt disagrees. Kurt nods, and Puck continues. “Still doesn’t really explain why you’re still dating him now.” 

“I guess it’s just that… he’s what I know,” Kurt says. “He’s the only boy I’ve ever kissed— _really_ kissed—and the only boy I’ve ever done other things with. He loves me. That’s not nothing.”

Puck smirks to himself, because ‘that’s not nothing’ sounds more like Finn. “But, okay, do you want him to be the only guy you _ever_ kiss?”

“Shouldn’t I just be glad there’s someone out there for me?” Kurt asks. “We’re happy together, even if you don’t think what we have is that exciting. It’s been enough for me.”

“You haven’t made it out of Lima even, dude, not yet. I don’t think there’s one person for everyone. Soulmates, whatever kind of crap you want to call it. Relationships should be exciting, ’cause they’re work. No one’s perfectly suited for someone else. C’mon, you can’t tell me you really think that. Look at your dad and Finn’s mom. Either they’re not happy now, or they weren’t happy with their first marriages. You want to make that call?”

“But that’s different. They both lost somebody,” Kurt argues. “If my mom were still alive, or Finn’s dad were, it would be different.”

“Look at my mom and dad,” Puck says. “They were happy, once. I mean, I even remember it, a little. But neither one of them wanted to work at it. My dad wanted exciting without working. It was mostly him,” Puck concedes. “You think my mom doesn’t deserve to one day find someone else?”

“I’m not saying that. I’m not even saying Blaine and I are soulmates or anything like that. I’m just saying, if it’s working, even if it’s not as exciting as it could be, why would I throw it away?”

“I don’t know,” Puck says more quietly. “Maybe ’cause when you were listing your reasons for dating him, you said he loves you. Not the other way around. And because you _do_ like exciting.” 

“I don’t,” Kurt insists.

Puck nudges Kurt’s shoulder. “No one’s listening. You don’t have to lie.”

“Okay, I don’t _hate_ exciting,” Kurt admits. “This past day-and-a-half has been… fun.”

“Just fun?” Puck says, grinning at him. “Look, I get it. Your options are limited. But they’re not zero.” 

“You know, it’s just like you to make me have this conversation when I’m being held hostage by bleach,” Kurt grumbles.

“You said I should talk,” Puck points out. “Fine, ask me questions instead.”

“Alright. Do you think we’re going to make it out of this alive?” Kurt asks.

“Yeah,” Puck says, and he realizes he’s not even lying. “Jail depends on how Sebastian reacts.” 

“And what if we don’t? Do you have any big regrets?”

Puck huffs a quiet laugh. “Plenty of them.”

“Tell me one,” Kurt says.

“I have a kid that I’m not gonna really know, ’cause I fucked it up not once, but twice,” Puck says quietly, staring straight ahead. “Every time I try to fix shit, I just fuck it up more.”

“Oh, Puck,” Kurt replies. “At least you try. That’s more than some people do. Most people, even.”

“Yeah, well.” Puck snorts. “It’d be kinda easy, you know. Go back and see if not–Jerry does other docs, and just… go.”

“Hmm. Birth certificates. Social security cards.”

“High school transcript, too,” Puck adds. “Would need that for any college, or some other jobs.” He laughs. “Rob doesn’t have a record. I could, I don’t know. Become a cop or something.”

“Oh yes, I’m sure you’d love that,” Kurt says, with a little giggle.

“Better than an actual Marine,” Puck points out. “I mean, think about it. Rob could be whoever I decided he was. You could do the same thing with Tyler. I think it’s possible Rob was a late bloomer.” Puck flexes his arm. “Didn’t get these until after high school, when he ditched the glasses and started lifting.”

“Maybe Tyler has always been the confident one,” Kurt says. “He probably never got bullied. Maybe he played a sport, even. What do you think? Baseball?”

“Yeah, or soccer,” Puck agrees, nodding. “I mean, hell, within certain boundaries, we could completely relabel ourselves.” He laughs and nudges Kurt again. “Tyler could tell people he was bi.”

“Do you think anyone would believe it, though?” Kurt asks. “Plus, girls. I don’t think I could fake that.”

“Sure, why not?” Puck shrugs. “I mean, if you were with someone, it’s not like people’d be asking you to hit on girls.” Puck pauses. “I mean, hell, I could probably make Rob gay.” 

Kurt snorts. “Oh yeah, I’m so sure.” He shakes his head. “Maybe you just stick with Rob being bi, and Tyler can be gay.”

“You doubt me?” Puck says. “I’m wounded. And where’s the fun in Rob being bi?” 

“I really can’t say. I can’t imagine a scenario in which I’d enjoy being bi,” Kurt says.

Puck laughs. “No, don’t guess you could. I just mean, if the point’s to make things different, they should be different, right?” 

“It’s all just conjecture anyway,” Kurt says. “I can’t just disappear and be Tyler.”

“You _could_ ,” Puck points out. “I mean, like I said, we’d need more documents. I’d need to get all my cash. But it’s not impossible. Admit it, it’s kind of appealing.” 

“But I’ve got my dad, Finn, Carole,” Kurt says. “Blaine.”

“Yeah, I’d miss Finn,” Puck admits. “Probably about the only person I’d really miss. But three people out of the entire world knowing wouldn’t be impossible, either.” Puck pauses. “I mean, okay, pretend I’m nuts, pretend everything works out perfect, you get into that New York school instead of Rachel. And you’re going to tell me that a year from now, you’re going to be with Blaine?” Puck snorts and shakes his head. “No fucking way. Either one of you will cheat, or both of you, or you’ll have some tearful confessions over Christmas break about being interested in other people, people you see more than once every two or three months.”

Kurt sighs again, a long exhalation. “Maybe so, or maybe we’d manage some kind of long-distance thing, and then the next year he’d come to NYADA, too.”

Puck laughs before he can stop himself, and he just laughs harder the longer he laughs. Kurt scowls, but also looks confused. 

“What?” Kurt demands.

“Okay, I haven’t had Rachel’s fancy classes,” Puck says when he can talk again, “and I know I’m not Schue’s favorite. But I know more about music theory than anyone in that room, except Artie, and believe it or not, I know when someone’s good or not. You? You’re good enough to get into that school. Probably good enough for beyond that, if that’s what you want to spend all your time, day in and day out, doing. But Blaine? Kurt, Blaine’s good, but he’s high-school good. He won’t get solos in college, not even at a place like OSU, much less an actual music school.”

“That’s funny,” Kurt says, “because everybody else seems to think he’s the best performer in the club.”

“Do they?” Puck asks mildly. “And is the real world like glee club?”

“No,” Kurt admits. 

“I like glee, don’t get me wrong,” Puck says, “but it’s not a democracy. We never sat down and voted for Rachel to always have a solo or anything like that. Yeah, Blaine’s good at a specific set of skills that result in him getting attention in a high school show choir. But think about it yourself— do _you_ think that’s going to translate later?”

“Maybe not, but at least he’ll have more to show for his four years of high school,” Kurt says. “My application doesn’t have much on it.”

“Yeah, I don’t know much about those,” Puck admits. “Outside my area.”

“How’s my hair looking?”

Puck stands up and grabs a paper towel, since the directions said to wipe a strand underneath. He finds one and examines it. “Yeah, not yet,” he decides. “Your hair’s naturally kind of dark, you know.”

“Not as dark as yours,” Kurt points out. 

“If I ever dye my hair, then, I’ll remember to leave on the dye even longer than you do,” Puck says with a little grin. 

“Now you have all this important knowledge, should you ever decide to go blond,” Kurt says. “So, I guess we need to decide where we’re going next. Start over with Parrotfish or somebody?”

“Well, first we have to get a car. Any preferences? I think we should avoid red.”

“Grey or tan would be best,” Kurt says. “Something that’s an older model, but not more than ten years old.”

“Nothing too pricey, either,” Puck agrees, pulling out the list. “Well, hell.”

“What?”

“Stoner Brett’s still on here.”

“People do keep mentioning him,” Kurt says. “Do you think it’s actually possible that he knows anything about what’s going on?”

“Be a hell of a practical joke for the universe to play,” Puck says, shaking his head. “Guess it’d give me a chance to get the rest of my cash, though, if we head back into Lima.”

“Just in case Rob Rodriguez decides to head for greener pastures?” Kurt asks. 

“Well, the way I figured it, there’s three outcomes, and two of ’em involve Rob, so better to be prepared, right?” Puck responds.

Kurt adjusts the plastic curtain across his shoulders. “So… was the money worth it? All of this craziness?”

“Hmm.” Puck thinks for a few minutes. “Yeah. This is really pretty damn fun. More people should go on bizarre road trips, you know?”

“I could skip the closet full of torture implements leg of the trip next time,” Kurt says.

“Yeah,” Puck says with a wince. “Maybe some sex toys instead or something.”

“Well,” Kurt says, turning a little red.

“’Cause he had those handcuff–looking things,” Puck explains. “Figure sex toys were similar but a hell of a lot more fun.”

“I think just about anything would be more fun than torture implements!”

“Maybe more booze next time, too,” Puck says thoughtfully. 

“We are twenty-one and twenty-two now,” Kurt says. “We could buy ourselves a drink.”

“I did say I’d buy a round when we got rid of the bucket.” Puck nods to himself a few times. “We can stop at Duke’s before we find a place to crash tonight.” Puck stands again and puts his fingers through Kurt’s hair, letting his other hand brush over the back of Kurt’s neck, dipping a finger under the edge of the shower curtain. “You gonna need some help rinsing it out?”

Kurt shivers slightly. “Should we just rinse it in the sink, do you think? Or should I hop in the shower? A shower does sound kind of nice, but it’ll take more time.”

“You’d still have to put on the same clothes,” Puck points out, the finger under the curtain moving slowly back and forth. “Could sit you on the bucket in front of the sink.”

Kurt nods and lets the curtain drop off his shoulders, moving to sit on the bucket, with his back to the sink and his head tipped back. “Let’s see what I look like blond,” he says.

“Oughta go back and ask not–Jerry to update your picture,” Puck says with a grin as he turns on the water. “Good thing this isn’t one of those sinks where you have to keep pushing it on.” He rinses Kurt’s hair until the water’s clear and all of that the directions say, then dries it as best he can with paper towels. “Hang on, you gotta let this other stuff sit for five minutes. Then it’ll be done.” He pauses. “You have scissors in that bag of yours?”

“I have a small sewing and repair kit in there. It has scissors.”

“Okay, didn’t figure you wanted a haircut with safety scissors,” Puck jokes. 

“What, exactly, are you planning to do to my hair?” Kurt asks. “How short are you cutting it?”

“I was thinking something kinda like Neil Patrick Harris,” Puck says. “Not super-short or anything, but it’s gotta look different. Can’t just be blond–you.”

“I suppose not,” Kurt says. “Has it been five minutes yet?”

“Close enough,” Puck decides. He rinses the other stuff out, then shakes out the shower curtain. “Move the bucket away from the sink a little and put this back on.” 

Kurt scoots the bucket back and re-drapes himself. He grimaces and says, “Okay.”

“Relax, it’s just hair,” Puck says. “Sewing kit, you said?” He picks up the satchel and opens it. “Hey, I recognize these,” Puck mutters when he sees the condoms and lube. 

“Did you find the scissors?” Kurt asks. 

“If this is a sewing kit,” Puck says, pulling out a fabric-covered box. “Huh, yeah. Is this so you can whip up pants in an emergency?” he asks, pulling out the scissors. 

“Fix hems, minor alterations, repair straps or closures,” Kurt says. 

“Uh-huh.” Puck opens and closes the scissors a few times. “Okay, you’re probably gonna want to close your eyes now.” Kurt closes his eyes and sits still while Puck starts awkwardly snipping at his hair. It takes about fifteen minutes, because Puck has to make sure it’s even, and the first time he tries to even it up, he makes the side that was longer too short. Finally Puck decides it’s as good as Kurt’s going to get, considering that it’s the first time Puck’s ever cut hair, and he puts the scissors down. “Okay. Hang on.” Puck walks around the bucket, stopping in front of Kurt’s face and looking at him. “Open your eyes.”

Kurt opens his eyes. “I think I’ll take a quick shower to get the hair off before I look at it. Might soften the blow.”

“You look hot,” Puck says with a little smirk. “Tyler.”

Kurt rolls his eyes and steps into the shower stall that still has a curtain. The water starts, and then Kurt’s jeans fly over the curtain rod to hang. While Kurt showers, Puck gathers up all of their trash and puts it in the shower curtain, because they can’t leave any hints behind. 

The water cuts off, and Kurt calls out, “Can you bring me some paper towels?”

“Sure!” Puck grabs a huge handful and walks to the shower. “Can I take a peek?”

“Just don’t stare,” Kurt cautions. 

Puck flicks the curtain back, hand outstretched with the paper towels. “What shouldn’t I stare at?” he asks, looking Kurt up and down. 

Kurt snatches the paper towels from Puck’s hand and turns his back to Puck. “Just don’t stare!” he repeats, starting to towel off his shoulders and chest. 

“But you have a great ass.”

“Which I worked very hard for, but don’t stare at it!”

“Can I touch it?” Puck asks. “I’ll look at your hair while I do it.”

“What? No! You can’t touch it!” Kurt squawks at him. “Just get out of the shower so I can finish drying off and see what you did to my hair!”

“Why not?” Puck asks, letting the curtain close. “I think it looks good. I know it’s not your first choice or anything.” 

Kurt pulls his jeans back down from the curtain rod, then after another minute, pushes back the curtain and walks out. “Okay, I’m going to get some product, first, so I can work on my new look.” He reaches into the satchel and pulls out a bottle, a spraybottle, and a small cannister, before walking over to the mirror to look at himself. “Oh my God.”

“Told you it was hot.”

“I look like a twink!” Kurt says. “Oh my God.” He opens the cannister and scoops up some of whatever’s inside and starts running it through his hair, smoothing and arranging his hair for several minutes before looking at himself critically in the mirror. “Still twink, but I guess it’ll have to do. It’s not horrible, it’s just…”

“What wrong with looking like a twink?” Puck asks. 

“It’s just not _me_!”

“So maybe it’s Tyler?” Puck jokes, stepping behind Kurt. “I told you, I think it’s hot. You sure you don’t want to send that text now?”

“Tyler apparently looks like Aaron from _Latter Days_ ,” Kurt sighs. “Or Justin from _Queer as Folk_.” He doesn’t respond to the question about the text, but starts putting his hair products back into his satchel, stepping around Puck to grab his shirt and put it back on. 

“You’re killing me here.”

“Better me than those guys with the guns,” Kurt replies. “Or the guy with the… what exactly _did_ Toby No-Last-Name have in his pantry?”

“Ugh, not actual killing,” Puck says, making a face. “I’m just trying to be decent here, but you’re making it difficult.”

“Puck, I swear to you, making a decision about whether or not to break up with my boyfriend is not actually a top priority in my life at the moment!” Kurt says. “Now, can we go steal a car and go pay Stoner Brett a visit before one of the bucket guys or the suits catches up with us?”

“Well, it is in _mine_ ,” Puck grumbles as he picks up the bucket, the Walgreens bag, and the shower curtain full of trash. “Fine. There’s another church across the road. We’ll get a car there.”

“Fine,” Kurt agrees. “Let’s go.”

“Still no Christians waiting for us,” Puck whispers as he opens the door, and no one is in the hallways as they head back outside. The parking lot is still full, and after they cross the street, Puck ditches the shower curtain in the CVS dumpster. “Grey or tan, you said?”

“Yes. Those have the lowest visibility. Preferably something with a lower profile, but not sporty,” Kurt says. “We want to look like a nice pair of young men on their way to or from church.”

“Hmm.” Puck scans the lot. “Okay, three options. Subaru wagon in a silvery grey, a tan pick-up, or a Impala?”

“Go for the wagon. We can put the bucket in the back.”

“Got it.” Puck is prepared to at least jimmy the locks, but the doors are unlocked, and Puck sits down in the driver’s seat for a second before jumping back up. “Mom or Dad was distracted,” he says, pointing out the two car seats. “Keys are still in here. What should we do about those car seats?”

“Set them on the ground. Car seats are expensive,” Kurt says. “Besides, we obviously don’t have any children, so it would just make us look incongruous in the car.”

“That’s what I was thinking,” Puck agrees, scooping the keys up from the seat and tossing them at Kurt before starting to remove the car seats, setting them under a nearby tree. Kurt walks around to the back of the station wagon and opens the hatch, lifting the bucket and carefully setting it inside. 

Kurt sits in the driver’s seat and cranks the car, grimacing at the loud Christian music that immediately begins to blare. He turns off the radio and once Puck’s seatbelt is buckled, backs out of the spot and speeds away from the church lot, back towards Lima.

“It’s a good thing I’m an atheist,” Kurt says, “because we just stole a car from a church parking lot on a Sunday.”

“Hey, as far as I’m concerned, yesterday was the day of rest.” Puck frowns. “I never did figure out why they changed it. All those idiots blathering about ‘the Sabbath’ and it’s the wrong day of the week.”

“As far as _I’m_ concerned, every day is the wrong day,” Kurt says. 

“I feel bad when I eat bacon on Saturdays,” Puck admits thoughtfully. “But not the rest of the week.”

“Less religion, less guilt, in theory,” Kurt offers. “Though I suppose I have plenty to feel guilty about without the God aspect coming into it.”

“Yeah, my mom’s pretty good at the Jewish mother guilt thing, but I think I’m immune to it by now.” Puck shrugs. “You should feel guilty about being a tease.”

“I’m not a tease!” Kurt protests. “Just because I won’t break up with my perfectly nice boyfriend.”

“Yeah, you are. You’re going to, and you know it, and you’re just stringing it out to torture me.” Puck looks over at Kurt and tsks, shaking his head. “Totally a tease.”

“Have you considered that not everything is about you?” Kurt asks. “I mean, other than this whole bucket situation, which is one hundred percent about you, most of my life doesn’t revolve around torturing you.”

“Well, it could be ’cause you somehow think it’ll be nicer for Blaine if you do it on a Monday instead of the weekend or something, but no, I do think it’s mostly about me, in this case.” 

“Wow, you are really full of yourself, aren’t you?” Kurt asks, he shakes his head as he turns the radio on, flipping through stations until he lands on something poppy, but not recognizable. 

“Once again, your non-answers tell me more than an actual answer would,” Puck says, staring out the window. “Want to take the interstate around Fort Wayne?”

“Sure,” Kurt says. They go around Fort Wayne to the north in complete silence, the radio going from one pop song to another without a break. On the other side of the city, Kurt steers them onto US–30, heading east towards Lima, and Puck notes their crossing into Ohio without much interest. 

“Does it make you uncomfortable?” Puck asks abruptly as they approach Van Wert. 

“What? The bucket situation?” Kurt responds. 

“No. Pretty sure that gets you excited,” Puck scoffs. “I meant, me wanting you.” 

“See, but that’s it exactly. I don’t think you really want _me_. I think this situation is exciting, and I’m the one involved in it with you,” Kurt says. “I’m accessible. If I were anybody else, you’d probably want the same thing from them.”

Puck laughs. “Really? You really think that?” 

“Maybe not _Finn_ , but, say, if I were Tina, for instance,” Kurt says. 

“So is it that you think it’s the situation, or is it that you think I’d rather have a girl, or what? You’re confusing me.” 

“I couldn’t think of any other guys who might meet your specifications,” Kurt says, “since both Blaine and Sebastian aren’t to your tastes. But you’ve never looked at me twice before, and now we’re in the middle of a high-adrenaline situation, and you want me? Come on, Puck, how would you think that sounded?”

“Okay, two things. First of all, you might’ve noticed I’ve been _trying_ to get you to break it off with Blaine, aka I’m not trying to get you to cheat. Second, hmm. How’s the best way to put it?” Puck pauses. “So before he left, Matt and I had a thing for a little bit.”

Kurt looks a little surprised, but he nods. “Okay, so jocks are your type. Still rules me out.”

“By that standard, I should be wanting Finn, and you shouldn’t be looking at me, ’cause I’m not short, and my pants are long enough,” Puck points out. “One person doesn’t make it your type.” 

“Maybe we’ll reassess once the bucket thing is over,” Kurt suggests. “Since the danger seems to excite you, and you keep insisting it excites me.”

Puck snorts. “Yeah. Bullshit. You’ll avoid me and go back to pretending like Blaine gets you hot and bothered.” 

“And you’ll go back to panting after cheerleaders in short skirts, and we’ll both know it was the rush, and not actually attraction, between us,” Kurt finishes, in an oh-so-practical tone.

“Uh, you might not have noticed, but I haven’t exactly been with any cheerleaders in, I don’t know. Months? Over a year?”

“Or cougars or _whoever_ ,” Kurt says.

“Whatever. I thought you were different, maybe,” Puck says, getting mad at himself. 

“Well, I’m not different. I’m still the same Kurt I always was,” Kurt says. “Now, do you know where Brett lives, or do we have to turn my phone on and look it up?”

“Why the fuck would I know where Stoner Brett lives?” Puck says, rolling his eyes. “I meant different than the rest of them. Whatever. Just…” Puck trails off. “You’re so— determined to stick me back in whatever box you had me in before this, aren’t you?”

“And you’re so determined to make me break it off with Blaine and hook up with you,” Kurt snaps. “What happens when this is over and you’re either back to your normal life or ‘Rob’ disappears, huh? Where does that leave me?”

“You could fucking come with me, you know. Tyler could,” Puck points out. “And I don’t know, I think _you’re_ the one that wouldn’t want to be seen with _me_.”

“It’s not about that!”

“You sure about that? You’d be in good company.” 

“I’m sure,” Kurt says. “But I’m also sure I can’t—”

“Can’t what?” Puck asks, reaching for Kurt’s phone to look up Stoner Brett’s whereabouts.

“I just _can’t_ ,” Kurt says softly. “You’ll make me want you, you’ll make me want to leave everything else behind, and then you’ll get tired of me.”

Puck starts to deny that, and angrily, but then he frowns. “Wait, what? Who—” he pauses, trying to figure out how to word it. “Why are you so certain I’d get tired of you? Who got tired of you?”

“You’ve spent the last two days telling me over and over again how boring Blaine is, how boring my relationship with him is, but if I can’t even keep someone who’s that _boring_ interested in me…”

“Huh? Are you saying…” Puck trails off, feeling confused. “Blaine’s tired of you? What?”

“I don’t know if he’s tired of me, exactly, but I don’t excite him,” Kurt says. 

“Which sounds like his problem, not yours,” Puck says. “No, really, I’m serious. Or maybe different shit gets the two of you excited. Doesn’t mean that’s you.”

“Doesn’t mean it’s not me, either.”

“Not enough data points. Can’t draw a conclusion from it, and all of that. But remember what I said, about work in a relationship? You can’t make the other person put any work in. That’s all on them.”

“Maybe you’re right,” Kurt concedes. “Maybe it’s not me. Maybe I’m exactly what you thought I was, and I’m all about the danger and excitement. Maybe we’ll get shot before we ever get rid of this goddamn bucket, or maybe we get arrested once we’re done with it. I just don’t know, Puck, and I’m scared to add a whole new thing in on top of it!”

“Can we skip the getting shot and/or arrested?” Puck says. “You’d managed to get me a little optimistic about avoiding jail. And uh. I’d like to hope I’m not a _bad_ thing like those others are.” 

“You’re not bad, but you’re definitely not safe, either,” Kurt says. “I have to go back to a nice, safe life after this, finish my NYADA application process.”

“Right,” Puck says flatly. “’Cause nice and safe had you so happy, and I don’t fit in with your world. Got it. Turn left there.”

Kurt sets his jaw and doesn’t respond, turning left. 

“Red house,” Puck says when they approach the address, then shuts off Kurt’s phone and goes back to staring out the window. Kurt parks on the street in front of the red house, shutting off the engine.

“Do we need a better escape plan this time?” Kurt asks.

Puck thinks about making some kind of comment about how he half-expects Kurt to just leave him there, at this rate, but then Kurt might think that’s a good idea, so he doesn’t, shrugging instead. “Guess we could steal Stoner Brett’s car.”

“If he doesn’t have any information for us, then absolutely,” Kurt says. “At least he probably won’t have weird torture stuff in his pantry, one would hope.”

“Just pot, I’d guess.” Puck goes to the back of the wagon and grabs the bucket out. “We could steal some of it, sell it for more money, but that’s definitely illegal.”

“Whereas nothing we’ve done so far has been,” Kurt says.

Puck shrugs. “No reason they’ll ever connect this car theft with us.” He heads up the sidewalk and knocks three times, loudly. 

“Sebastian, on the other hand,” Kurt mutters, as they hear someone undoing the deadbolt, apparently with some degree of difficulty. The door slowly swings open, and there’s Stoner Brett, compete with his usual knit cap and Pigpen-esque cloud of marijuana smell.

“Oh, hey!” Brett says, with an easy grin. “Did we have an appointment?”

“Not exactly,” Kurt says. “Puck? Show him the bucket.”

Puck lifts the bucket up, scowling. “Your last name is Gorski?”

“Yeah! Hey, you remembered!” Brett says. “But dude, you shouldn’t flash that thing around on the street. People are looking for it, man. They’re looking, like, _hard_ for it, if you know what I mean.”

“Yeah, the bullets and torture chamber gave us a clue,” Puck says. “Where do I take it so I can get paid?”

Brett laughs and waves them in. “Ohhh, you dudes met Toby? He’s kind of intense, you know? But he makes great shortbread. Did he give you any shortbread?” The inside of Brett’s house is surprisingly clean, with white leather furniture, white carpets, and white paint on the walls. The whole place reeks of pot, but Puck doesn’t see any bongs or other paraphernalia.

“Oh, he offered us shortbread, just before he went to his _whip pantry_ ,” Kurt says. “Where can we take the bucket, Brett?”

“Dude, just chill,” Brett says. “You want to smoke a bowl and we can talk about this like civilized…” He trails off, his eyes sliding partially closed, then they snap open again, and he continues, “people?”

“Nah. We’re a little cranky, for various reasons,” Puck says flatly. “I want to get the money and get paid, and he wants to be ‘safe’ again, so we’ll skip the bowl.”

“I can’t give you your money, dudes,” Brett says apologetically. “That’s not my role in all this. I’m just the, what d’you call it? Face guy.”

“Who do we go to, then?” Kurt asks. “We’ve been driving around for two days! And don’t tell us Parrotfish or Toby or that Rickman guy or anybody named after a body part!”

“Oh, _dude_ ,” Brett says, shaking his head. “Who sent you to those guys? That’s not who you need to see, man. You need to see Sally.”

“And who’s Sally?” Puck demands.

“Half-leg Sally, down in Dayton. New Carlisle, specifically,” Brett says. “Look for Honey Creek Village trailer park. You’ll know her trailer when you see it.”

“How will we know?” Kurt asks.

“Just look for the one that’s hot pink,” Brett says. “Only one of those. You guys want to smoke a bowl with me before you go?” Kurt and Puck both shake their heads again. “Well, I’ve got something for you, anyway.” He gets up and shuffles towards the back of the house.

“If it’s manacles or, I don’t know, any other kind of weird torture stuff, I’m just _done_ ,” Kurt whispers.

Puck shrugs, because Brett doesn’t seem like the torture type. It’s probably a smiley-face pillow or something. After a few minutes, Brett shuffles back out from the back. He smiles at them widely and guilelessly, and then raises the large pistol he’s holding in his left hand.

“Oh, shit!” Kurt squeaks, but Brett quickly flips the gun around, handing it grip first to Puck.

“It’s dangerous to go alone,” Brett intones solemnly. “Take this.”

“Well. Thanks, I guess,” Puck says, holding the gun gingerly. 

“I just hope Sally gets you to La Mariposa before _they_ get to you,” Brett says. With that, he drops back down onto the sofa, reaching for a plate on the coffee table that seems to contain a large stack of Rice Krispies treats. He waves them good-bye as he munches happily on his snack.

“You think Mariposa’s some place in Indiana?” Puck says once they’re back outside. 

“I’ve never heard of it,” Kurt says. “Where to next? Head on to Dayton?”

“Need to get the rest of my money.” Puck puts the bucket in the wagon. “Probably nobody’s home, but either way, I can climb in the window and back out.”

“Okay, I’ll just park on the street on that side,” Kurt says. He drives them out to Puck’s place and parks. 

Puck closes the door on the wagon quietly and hoists himself into his bedroom. The door’s shut, like it always is, so as long as he doesn’t knock anything over, no one’ll know he was there. Hell, he could probably empty it, and his mom wouldn’t know when exactly he took it all. Puck gets all of the cash from under his mattress and scans the room. There’s nothing in there he’d miss, and there’s nothing worth that much, so he pockets the cash and climbs back out the window. 

“Mission accomplished,” Puck says when he climbs back into the Subaru. “Let’s go see not–Jerry.”

Kurt nods and silently steers them towards Spencerville again, and Puck tries to run down the list of documents in his head. Social, birth certificate, official transcript, plus the IDs they already have – it should be enough, if Puck wanted to go somewhere else and start over. Even if not right away, even if it were in a few more months or years, but he might as well have it all. 

“What if he’s not in?” Kurt asks, once they’ve parked at the Friends Church and are making their way around it to the shed again.

Puck shrugs. “Then Rob and Tyler can’t get legitimate jobs?”

“Or a place to live or anything like that,” Kurt says. “How much do you think it costs?”

“More complicated work but less expensive materials, right?” Puck shrugs again and knocks. “A hundred each?”

The door opens and not–Jerry squints at them in the sunlight. “You are back? The IDs were not to your preferences?”

“Nah, they’re great,” Puck says. “Though maybe we need to update his photo.” He jerks a thumb towards Kurt. “But we wanted other documents. For those two names.” 

“Which documents?” not–Jerry asks. “Social Security cards? Birth certificates?”

“Yeah, both of those, and a high school transcript for both.” Puck pauses. “ _Good_ transcripts.”

“Ahhh. You want the Life Package, then? Full job?” not–Jerry asks. Kurt looks at Puck and nods his head tentatively. “Seven-fifty for two.”

“No way, man,” Puck says, shaking his head. “Three hundred.”

“Would be eight-hundred for two _separate_ lives,” not–Jerry insists. “No lower than six for two involved lives.”

“Three hundred down, three hundred when we pick up,” Puck says firmly. “How long?”

“Fifteen minutes with you here, then, hmm. Hour,” not–Jerry says. “Maybe an hour and a half.”

“An hour,” Puck says. “We have to drive an hour northwest still today.”

“Do you want speed or do you want good?” not–Jerry asks. “Three hundred now, and no more talking. Stand in front of the screen.”

Puck waits until not–Jerry’s back is turned to roll his eyes, but he and Kurt go stand in front of the screen. Not–Jerry turns around and gestures at them.

“Skinny one, arm around the Marine’s waist.” Puck waits to see if Kurt’s going to protest, but Kurt does as instructed, and not–Jerry snaps a picture with the same bright flash. “Okay, now heads near each other,” not–Jerry directs. “Smiles. You aren’t dying, you’re on vacation.”

“What is this for?” Kurt asks, as he moves his head closer to Puck’s, arm still around Puck’s waist.

“Life Package.”

“It includes a fake vacation?” Puck asks. 

“Real people carry photos,” not–Jerry explains. “You want Life Package, you get the photos.” He reaches into a bin behind him and hands Puck a beer can and Kurt a plastic hurricane glass filled with some kind of pink resin. “Now, smile drunker.”

Puck snorts. “Guess we’d better read up on wherever we went to get drunk.”

“All resorts are the same, fake white beaches and colorful drinks,” not–Jerry says. “Mexico, Bahamas, doesn’t matter. You pick one.” He snaps one last picture and then makes a shooing motion with his hands. “Leave the money, come back in one hour.”

Puck pulls out three hundred-dollar bills and puts them on the counter, then walks back outside, Kurt behind him. “Guess we could eat some of that candy from Walgreens,” he says after a few moments of silence. 

“Fine,” Kurt says. “Do you think the Life Package includes dental records?”

“No clue.” Puck shrugs. “Seems like the kind of thing you’d want destroyed more than recreated.”

“I was just wondering if they’d use those to identify us or if they’d just use all the fake paperwork they find on us,” Kurt muses. “You know, if…”

“Trying not to consider that possible outcome.”

“I was thinking about my dad,” Kurt says quietly. “Whether anybody would let him know.”

“Set up a…” Puck frowns. “Send a letter that if he doesn’t hear from you by a certain date, well.” Puck shrugs. “You could find a way to get him a message.” 

“And what about you?” Kurt asks.

“Who’s gonna miss me?” Puck counters. “Guess you could leave a line for Finn in that letter to your dad.”

“You don’t think anybody would miss you?”

Puck turns to stare at Kurt. “You can make the list and tell me how long it is.”

Kurt looks away first, down at his hands. “Sorry. I’ll just sit here and keep my thoughts to myself,” he murmurs. 

“That’s what I thought.” Puck reaches into the wagon and pulls out some of the candy, and the rustle of the wrapper is the only sound while they wait for not–Jerry to finish. At just past an hour, the shed door opens, and not–Jerry emerges, a large manilla envelope in his hands. 

“Your Life Package,” not–Jerry says, proffering the envelope. “My cash?”

Puck pulls out three hundred more and hands it to not–Jerry, taking the envelope. “Thanks.”

“Any time,” not–Jerry says. “Though, perhaps two Life Packages are enough?”

“I hope so,” Kurt agrees. He nods at not–Jerry, glancing over at Puck. “Ready?”

“Sure.” Puck resists the impulse to inspect all of the documents; there’ll be time enough for that eventually.

They walk together to the station wagon, and as Kurt closes his door and buckles, he asks, “So, driving down to Dayton, then?” 

Puck nods. “Guess so.” 

Kurt puts them on Ohio 235 southbound towards Dayton, a smart choice, with the stolen vehicle and all. They drive in tense silence, both eager to find some answers, but both dreading the possible fall-out. The drive takes close to an hour and a half, before Kurt turns the station wagon into a well-maintained trailer park. Brett is true to his word; the hot pink trailer stands out among the others, though it’s also very clean and has a little attached wooden porch like many of the other trailers. 

Kurt parks outside and looks up at the trailer. “Moment of truth or another dead end?”

“Or both.” Puck closes the door a little harder than necessary as he goes to get the bucket, then feels bad, because maybe the people they stole it from can’t afford to fix the door. They both stand at the base of the short flight of steps up to the trailer.

“You want me to go first?” Kurt offers. “I mean, I know you have the…” He gestures to the gun in Puck’s pocket.

“Yeah, let’s see what Sally has to say,” Puck agrees. Kurt walks up the steps and knocks on the door. 

“Just a minute!” a woman’s voice calls, and a few seconds later, the door opens just a few inches, and the woman’s face appears. She looks like she’s in her early to mid thirties, with long dark hair, and the one visible shoulder is covered in tattoos. “Oh. Hi, boys. I’m sorry, but I really can’t deal with clients in person, especially not when they look like they’re underage.” She starts to close the door, but Kurt sticks his foot into the doorway, stopping it.

“Puck? Show her,” Kurt says, looking over his shoulder.

Puck lifts the bucket into the woman’s line of sight, long enough for her to get a good look at it. Her eyes widen briefly, but then she smiles and opens the door the rest of the way.

“Oh, well damn, my mistake! You boys come right in!” she says. “We were just finishing up a shoot, if you don’t mind standing back here in the kitchen until we cut off the feed.” She waves them inside, and as they walk up the stairs, Puck realizes she’s dressed in a corset and a leather harness, sporting a large turquoise strap-on, and that one of her legs seems to end just above the knee, replaced by an artificial leg. Most of her visible skin is covered in tattoos, and the prosthetic leg is also decorated in tattoo-like designs. 

She points at a tiny table with four chairs. “Just sit back here. If you two get in the shot, they’ll shut us down for sure!” She walks to the other end of the trailer, where a man in what appears to be an S.S. hat and leather chest harness is tied over another table, ass in the air. Sally adjusts a camera on the side wall of the trailer, then comes up behind the man and proceeds to fuck him vigorously in the ass with the strap-on.

“Huh.” Puck sits down heavily. “Maybe it’s good they think we’re underage.”

“Oh. My. God,” Kurt says breathily. His eyes are wide, and he can’t seem to be able to look away from the enthusiastically thrusting Sally or her table-top victim, who is wailing with increasing volume with each thrust.

“Is that a good oh my god or a bad one?” Puck whispers. “’Cause uh…” he trails off, not sure how to continue. 

“I am honestly unsure,” Kurt responds quietly. 

“That’s a lot of leather and being tied down, is all.”

“I’ve never seen porn in real life, is all,” Kurt says. “It looks kind of… scary.”

The guy on the table gives a final, quavering wail, Sally smacks him on the ass, and then she withdraws, shutting off the camera. She unties the man, talking to him for a moment, and he stands up, both of them walking over to Kurt and Puck at the table and taking a seat on another pair of chairs.

“Thanks for being patient,” Half-leg Sally says cheerfully. “We were trying to get that last show wrapped up in time to finish off the post-church crowd. It’s all about timing.”

“Miss it by five minutes, and there goes half your profits,” the man says. “Do you want some tea? I can put the electric kettle on and have it done in a jiff.”

“Uh,” Kurt says.

“Why not?” Puck says, shrugging. The man walks farther into the kitchen and turns on the kettle.

“Oolong or Darjeeling? Or we have a few tisanes, if you’re off the caffeine,” the man says. “Sally’s sister won’t touch the stuff.”

“Darjeeling is fine,” Kurt answers, staring at Puck with his eyes even wider.

“The more caffeine, the better,” Puck says, nodding at the man before looking at Sally. “Brett said you could help us.”

“Brett’s a sweetheart, but he should know we’re not an approved drop point,” Sally says. “Who are you two, anyway? Neither one of you are Jimmy, and as far as I know, he’s the terminus these days.”

“Jimmy ran off when I told him there were people shooting.” Puck sighs. “I just want to deliver the damn thing and get paid.”

“Aw, you poor thing,” Sally says, reaching over to pat Puck on the leg sympathetically. “Being shot at? I’d bet you’re just done with the whole thing. Jimmy had no business hiring delivery boys. Boss lady told him to cut that shit out. Klaus, is that tea coming any time soon?”

“Just a sec’,” Klaus answers. “I want the leaves to get a chance to really reach full unfurl. Do you boys take milk? Sugar? Honey? We have agave and— Sally, do we still have the Splenda packets in here somewhere?”

“Bottom of the basket,” Sally says.

“Milk and sugar is fine,” Kurt says. “So, can you help us at all?”

“We can’t take the bucket,” Sally says, patting Kurt on the leg this time. “The system works best when everybody plays his or her role as assigned. We can send you to the right person, though. People, actually. Either of them should be able to help. Dory’s just on the other side of Dayton, and Han’s down just north of Cincy. Klaus, baby, you’ve got the addresses, right?”

“Book’s under the pink ball gag in the bedroom,” Klaus answers.

“Another night, then,” Puck says, mostly to himself. 

“You poor things,” Sally says again. “Do you two want to stay for dinner and then crash over, and I can send you off to Dory in the morning? We’re having kugel.”

“Yeah?” Puck says curiously. 

“We keep kosher,” Sally explains. “Klaus is Jewish.” Puck and Kurt both stare at Klaus’s S.S. hat, and Sally laughs. “Oh, that’s just for the cam. Something about those neo-Nazi types, they love seeing one of their own taking it up the ass from a woman with a fake leg.” 

“We donate ten percent of proceeds to the Anti-Defamation League,” Klaus says, as he sets the mugs of tea in front of Kurt and Puck. “We don’t mind if the bigots are paying our bills, as long as we can give a little back to fight ’em.”

“Makes sense, I guess,” Puck says with a nod. “And yeah, I guess that’d be good, staying here.”

“Great! We’ll make up the fold-out and pop that kugel into the oven now,” Sally says. “If you’ll excuse me a second, I’ll go put on something a little less professional. Klaus, baby, you might want to put on your sweats before you scare the boys.”

As Sally and Klaus leave the kitchen, Puck turns to look at Kurt. “You want me to drop you off in Dayton tomorrow?” he says evenly. 

“Why would I want you to do that?” Kurt asks, frowning. “I’m in this now.”

Puck shrugs. “Figured you could tell them I more or less kidnapped you, too. Probably make a great essay on that application of yours.” 

Kurt’s expression softens. “Puck, no,” he says softly. “Like I said, I’m in this. Maybe not at the beginning, but I am now. You’re not taking the fall for both of us. I have to see it to the end.”

“Okay,” Puck says, drinking some of the tea. “Just an offer.”

“Uh-oh!” Sally’s voice sings out musically. “Is there trouble in paradise?”

“Nothing really to trouble,” Puck says flatly. “I think at least one of us should get something we want out of it, is all.”

“Did I misread you two?” she asks. “I could have sworn you two were hot n’ heavy, the way the two of you keep sneaking looks at each other.” She brushes by them into the kitchen, adjusting the oven temperature. “I know this profession can be a little dicey, but having a partner makes it safer and more enjoyable.”

“Always good to know where home base is,” Klaus agrees as he walks in. “Whatever else we having going on, I know I’ve always got her.”

“Oh, no, you— not _exactly_ ,” Kurt says. He looks over at Puck, an odd expression on his face, almost closed-off, but not frowning or anything.

“Different people want different things, is all,” Puck says to Sally. 

“And yet, here you both are, so you must have that much in common, at least,” Sally says. “Hard to find someone willing to jump into this sort of mess with you, especially if they don’t at least want some of the same things you do.” 

Puck shrugs. “Maybe so. You have a bathroom I could use?”

“Sure do, sweetie. Just down there, on the left,” Sally says, pointing. “We’ll just get the table set, won’t be too long to get that kugel heated through.”

“Thanks.” Puck stands and leans towards Kurt. “I never have been the one doing the dumping,” he says quietly, then heads towards the bathroom. 

Dinner isn’t bad, and Puck figures his mom would be happy if she realized he was eating a kosher meal. Sally and Klaus keep up the conversation on unimportant things, and when they’re done, Puck offers to help with the dishes. 

“Such a sweetheart!” Sally remarks. “Maybe your partner can help Klaus set up the pull-out?” Kurt nods and stands, following Klaus down to the living room areas. Sally fills up the sink with warm water and hands Puck a wash rag. “You wash, I’ll dry.”

“Sure,” Puck agrees, grabbing the first plate. “We do appreciate you letting us stay here.”

“No trouble at all. You’re good eaters, and you’re nice and quiet, the both of you,” Sally says.

Puck half-smiles, half-grimaces and keeps washing the dishes; ‘nice and quiet’ isn’t how he’s usually described. When the dishes are finished, Puck dries his hands and steps towards the living room area. “I think I’m going to go to bed,” he announces, not really sure if he’s informing their hosts or Kurt. 

“You two sleep well,” Sally says, grabbing Klaus’s hand and starting to pulling him back towards their bedroom. “Keep the volume down, now.”

Puck snorts as he pulls his shirt over his head and drops it on the floor. “Right,” he mutters, taking off his jeans and sitting on the bed. When he turns his head to the other side of it, he’s a little surprised to see Kurt taking off his own shirt and removing his jeans. “Huh.” Puck slides under the sheets and waits for Kurt to sit on the bed before turning off the lamp. 

Kurt slips under the sheets and rolls towards Puck. “One more stop, maybe two, and this could all be over,” he whispers. “You’ll have your money.”

“Yep.” Puck lies on his back and closes his eyes. After a few minutes, he feels Kurt shift on the thin pull-out mattress, then he feels Kurt’s fingertips tentatively touching his chest. “Um.” Puck opens his eyes and turns his head to the side. “S’not really funny, Kurt,” he says quietly. 

“I’m not trying to be funny,” Kurt says. “I’m trying to…” He sighs. “I’m sorry.”

Puck takes a deep breath. “I gotta clarify, here: for what, exactly? ’Cause if you’re just sorry for leading me on, then that’s a shit way to apologize.”

“I’m sorry for making you feel bad,” Kurt says. “For making you think I was just being a tease, and for all that stuff I said earlier.” His fingers move in small spiral patterns on Puck’s chest. “I’m sorry for making you’d think I’d ever want you to take the fall.”

Puck shifts his weight, rolling onto his side so he’s facing Kurt. “You were probably right about one thing,” he acknowledges. “However this ends up, no. I’m not the safe option.”

“I think we both know if I really wanted the safe option, I never would have let you put that bucket in my car to begin with,” Kurt says. His fingers move lower on Puck’s chest, tracing the outline of Puck’s abs. 

“Just wanted to make sure,” Puck says, grinning slightly. 

“If things go south tomorrow, I just want you to know that all of this? It was the most fun I’ve had since maybe ever,” Kurt says. He moves towards Puck, his fingers dipping lower, running in a small circle around Puck’s navel. “Even the potential shooters. Even kidnapping Sebastian.”

“ _That_ was definitely a highlight,” Puck insists. “You think he’s still sitting out there in Indiana?”

“Don’t know, don’t care,” Kurt says. He shifts on the mattress again, moving so his legs touch Puck’s and their faces are only inches apart. 

“Kurt,” Puck says softly, running his thumb down Kurt’s jaw slowly and deliberately. 

“Yeah,” Kurt responds, closing the distance between them. His mouth meets Puck’s with a surprising roughness, his teeth worrying at Puck’s lower lip before his tongue pushes into Puck’s mouth. The hand on Puck’s chest slides down to Puck’s hip, pulling him closer.

Puck leans into the contact, his hand moving from Kurt’s jaw to the back of Kurt’s neck, holding Kurt in place as they kiss. The stubble on Kurt’s face is softer than Puck’s, but it’s still rough, their faces dragging against each other. Kurt’s grip tightens on Puck’s hip, and then he starts to roll, pushing Puck over onto his back with Kurt on top of him, his legs on either side of Puck’s. Puck runs his other hand down Kurt’s back, stopping just above Kurt’s ass and tightening it around Kurt, holding him close. 

Kurt grinds down against Puck, his cock pressing hard against Puck’s hip. Kurt continues kissing Puck hard, pulling away slightly and slamming their mouths together again. Puck moves his other hand up into Kurt’s now–shorter hair, letting it run between his fingers, and he opens his mouth wider under Kurt’s. 

Puck reluctantly pulls himself away after a few more minutes, breathing hard as he looks at Kurt. “Kurt,” he says, cupping Kurt’s face in one hand. “Shit, I want this, I do, _so_ bad.” 

“I want this, too. I tried to pretend I didn’t, but I do,” Kurt says. He rolls his hips, his cock sliding beside Puck’s, and they’re nestled almost perfectly as Puck groans. 

“I know,” Puck says. “But, dammit, you’re not— I can’t— you need to—” Puck cuts himself off again and sighs deeply. “This can’t be your little secret, Kurt, and then you go back home to the boyfriend.”

“No,” Kurt says, leaning forward to kiss the side of Puck’s face. “No, it’s not like that. It’s like Sally said, I’m your partner, right? I’m your partner in this, and we _do_ have that in common. I’m in this with you, all the way to the end.”

“I want to do this with a clear conscience,” Puck tries to explain, his hand moving over Kurt’s hair. “And, yes, fuck, you’re hot, and I want you, so fucking much, and you are, you’re my partner,” Puck continues, feeling like he’s babbling. “It’s just a loose end.”

“I’ll tie it,” Kurt promises. “I’ll tie it up.” He kisses the outer edge of Puck’s ear. “First thing tomorrow, I’ll tie it up.”

“And then… just you and me?” Puck says. 

“You and me and the goddamn bucket,” Kurt says. “Or…” he sighs softly into Puck’s ear, trailing the tip of his tongue around the lobe. “Or maybe just Rob and Tyler.”

“Fuck,” Puck breathes. “You are not helping my resolve, here.”

“Tyler doesn’t have a boyfriend,” Kurt whispers. He rolls his hips once more, with a firm downward pressure. 

“Oh, I don’t know,” Puck says, smirking a little. “I think maybe he does. Guy named Rob.”

“Mmm, that’s not my boyfriend. That’s my home base,” Kurt responds. 

Puck lets out a sound that’s probably a whimper as he presses up against Kurt. “Tell me what you’re going to do to me tomorrow,” Puck whispers. 

“Puck,” Kurt murmurs into Puck’s neck, “if we get rid of that bucket, I’ll ride you like a fucking cowgirl.”

Puck groans again, his cock pressing against Kurt’s. “Oh, fuck. _Fuck_.” He pulls Kurt against him with his arm, the pull-out bed squeaking a little. “You’re incredible.” 

Kurt moans against Puck’s neck, moving his hips faster, rolling in tight circles so his cock rubs against Puck’s over and over again. “One more day,” Kurt gasps out. “I don’t care who’s after us. Tomorrow, I swear.”

“Yeah. Yeah,” Puck agrees, moving with Kurt. “Fuck, I’m close.” 

“Me, too,” Kurt says. “Me, too, Puck.”

“You should— you should come now,” Puck manages. “Both of us.”

Kurt nods against Puck’s neck, rocking faster against Puck, then he starts to cry out in short, staccato little cries, and Puck can feel Kurt coming against him, hot and damp. Puck lets out a low cry of his own, thrusting up against Kurt a final time as he comes with a whine. 

“Tell me you love me,” Kurt says, his lips brushing the side of Puck’s neck. “Even if it’s just a post-orgasm lie, tell me.”

“I love you,” Puck whispers. “I love you, whatever color your hair is or whatever name is on your ID.”

“I love you,” Kurt whispers back. His body gradually goes limp on top of Puck’s, getting heavier, and Kurt’s breath slows and evens out. 

Puck shakes his head back and forth, barely moving it. “Yeah, you can use me as a mattress,” he whispers. “Sleep well.”

When Puck wakes up the next morning, the light is still grey, Kurt’s still sprawled on top of him, and they’re both sticky and a little crusty from the evening before. Puck pulls the blanket back up over Kurt’s shoulders, then tousles Kurt’s hair. He hopes there’s not a return to Kurt of the _day_ before instead of the _night_ before, but the only way to find out is to wake Kurt up.

“Hey,” Puck whispers near Kurt’s ear, his hand gently shaking Kurt’s shoulder.

“Mmm, where’d you put the gun?” Kurt murmurs drowsily.

“Is that a metaphor–thing?” Puck asks. “Real gun’s in my pants, under us.”

“Bucket?” Kurt asks. He nuzzles his face into the side of Puck’s neck. 

“Right beside us.” Puck chuckles for a moment. “Envelope’s in here, too, with the Walgreens bag. We never did look at them.”

Kurt makes a whiny noise and presses his face harder against Puck’s neck. “Later.” One of Kurt’s hands moves across the top of Puck’s chest and down his side. 

“Didn’t figure you for a morning person, somehow,” Puck admits, the hand on Kurt’s shoulder slipping under the blankets and down Kurt’s back. Kurt arches his back and wriggles against Puck with another whiny noise. 

“Do we have to get up?” Kurt asks. 

“Define ‘up’,” Puck says, smirking a little. “Haven’t heard anyone else moving around, though.”

“Should we go before they’re up?” Kurt pauses, wriggling more on top of Puck. “Should we try the shower?”

“We probably need a shower,” Puck concedes. “Maybe we should let them feed us breakfast. You could tie up that loose end while we’re here, in case someone traces it.”

“Yeah,” Kurt says into Puck’s neck. “Maybe I can do that while you shower, and I’ll shower after.”

“Okay.” Puck runs a hand over Kurt’s head, then around his jaw, tilting Kurt’s head up enough for Puck to kiss him softly. “I’ll see about breakfast while you shower, then.”

Kurt returns the kiss, squeezing Puck’s hip. When they part, he says, “See you in a few minutes, Rob.”

Puck grins as he starts to throw the blanket off of them. “’Kay, T.J.” Puck gathers up his clothes, including the gun, and he heads to the bathroom. He gives his underwear a considering look; it’s pretty gross, now, and Puck doesn’t have a problem going commando. He doesn’t want to leave it at Sally’s, though, because he’s seen enough crime shows to know not to leave DNA behind. He finally balls it up and shoves it in a pocket of his jeans; they can ditch it along the way to the next bucket–fascist. 

The warm water does feel good, and even though Puck’s sort of gotten used to his reflection, he still starts when he thinks about washing his hair and his hands don’t encounter that much hair. He must stand in the shower longer than he realizes when the door opens, and Puck thinks it’s interesting he recognized Kurt’s footsteps. 

“Guess I lost track of time,” Puck says. 

“It’s done,” Kurt says softly. “But I think you might need to hear this before I get in.”

“Hang on.” Puck rinses off and steps out without turning the water off. “What’s up?” he asks, grabbing a towel. 

“Blaine handled the break-up surprising well, but then he confessed that he’d spoken with my dad,” Kurt says. “And, uh. May have told him he thought I’d been kidnapped.”

“Oh, for crying out loud,” Puck says, rolling his eyes. “Let me guess? Your dad took him seriously?”

“Let’s just say that you may not be the only one that men in suits are after as of today,” Kurt says, wincing. He pushes off his briefs and cringes. “And on that note, I am going to get in the shower and then figure out what on earth I’m going to do about clothes today.”

Puck scoops up Kurt’s underwear and shoves it in the same pocket of his jeans with his own. “We’ll ditch it after we leave,” he says to Kurt. “We should ditch the Subaru and find a new ride at some point. And maybe actually hit up a KMart.”

Kurt cringes again at the mention of KMart. “Maybe T.J.’s a KMart shopper?” he offers.

“Just until he has enough money to go big at Old Navy,” Puck says with a little grin. “Sally or Klaus up?”

“Klaus is in the kitchen heating up some turkey bacon. Sally’s back in the bedroom getting ready for their morning film time, apparently.”

“I’ll go help Klaus, I guess.” Puck leaves his shirt off and leans in to kiss Kurt again. “Turkey bacon. You think Rob keeps kosher?”

“He can if you want us to,” Kurt says. As he pulls away to step into the shower, he lets his hand swing out, giving Puck a quick smack on the ass. “Seemed like something T.J. might do.”

Puck grins over his shoulder and leaves the bathroom, pulling the door shut behind him. Once he gets to the kitchen, Klaus puts him to work cooking eggs to go with the turkey bacon. Kurt doesn’t stay in the shower as long as Puck, though he looks a little less comfortable going commando in his skinny jeans than Puck does in his less-skinny jeans. 

“We’ll get you boys some clean shirts after we eat,” Klaus says, waving Puck to the table. “Sall?” he shouts towards the back of the trailer. “Food’s on!”

The accordion door to the trailer’s bedroom slides open and Sally appears, wearing a pair of tiny Daisy Dukes, a red plaid shirt tied right below her tits, and a massive, glossy black strap-on. “Hope you saved me some bacon, you beast!” she says to Klaus. “Morning, boys.”

“Morning,” Puck and Kurt chorus. 

Sally sits down next to Kurt, who is pointedly looking anywhere but at the black strap-on, and starts putting bacon and eggs on her plate. She gives Puck a sly sort of grin and says, “So, sounded like you two patched things up alright?”

“Yep,” Puck agrees, then takes a bite of the turkey bacon, because he needs to make sure it’ll be an okay substitute, just in case he does have Rob keep kosher.

“I told them we’d give them some fresh shirts to wear,” Klaus says, bending over to give Sally a kiss on the forehead. “I’ll go back and grab a couple. You have any you can live without?”

“Grab the grey tank and the Jose Cuervo shirt,” Sally says. “They won’t fit since I got my rack-lift.”

“Oh, _you_ ,” Klaus says, laughing and shaking his head as he walks back into the bedroom. 

“Jose’s totally you,” Puck says to Kurt with a grin, taking another bite of bacon. 

“We’ll just see about that,” Kurt replies. When Klaus comes back out with the shirts, though, it’s obvious that Kurt isn’t going to have a lot of choice about it, because the black T-shirt with a picture of a salt shaker, a shot of tequila, and a slice of lime—captioned ‘Lick, Drink, Suck’—is much too small to fit Puck. Puck ends up with a plain grey undershirt-style tank, while Kurt pulls the black tee over his head. It’s almost too tight on Kurt, and stops about a half-inch above the waistband of his jeans.

“Looks good,” Sally says.

“Particular order you want to do those in?” Puck asks Kurt, gesturing to the shirt and smirking. 

“Now I _really_ look like a twink,” Kurt says with a sigh. 

“Is that the worst thing?” Puck asks curiously. 

“No, I suppose it’s not, in light of other recent events,” Kurt concedes. He looks like he’s about to say something else, when they hear the screech of tires outside. “What’s that?” he asks.

Sally peeks out the window. “Klaus, baby, get me my shotgun,” she says calmly. “You boys head towards the bedroom nice and quick, please.”

“Not the suits, then,” Puck mutters, grabbing the bucket, the envelope, and the Walgreens bag as they head through the living room area. 

Klaus tosses a shotgun to Sally, who looks over her shoulder and says, “Klaus’ll give you a boost out the window while I take care of this. You two'd better hurry over to Dory’s.” She cocks the shotgun. “Best of luck in your life together!” 

“You, too,” Kurt says, as Klaus grabs both him and Puck by the arms and pulls them towards the back of the trailer. Sally kicks the front door open and steps out onto the porch, shotgun raised. 

“Alright now, be careful when you drop,” Klaus instructs, as he motions for Puck to come and get boosted out the window. 

“Go first,” Puck says to Kurt. “You can get the car started.”

Kurt nods, and Klaus boosts him out the window. Outside, the sound of Sally’s shotgun echoes alongside her shouting. Puck goes over to Klaus, grimacing a little about trying to balance everything he’s carrying, and Klaus boosts him up and out the window. Puck grunts as he lands, then runs for the Subaru, throwing himself in as Kurt revs the engine. 

“Definitely dumping this car later,” Puck gasps as he shuts the door. 

As Kurt throws the car into drive and guns the engine, Puck can see Sally in the background, standing on the porch with her shotgun, firing at a car-full of guys with facial tattoos and sawed-offs, her black strap-on gleaming in the morning sun. Puck hopes she manages to keep the facial tattoo bucket–fascists from hurting her, Klaus, or their trailer, though he supposes if a strap-on or two gets sacrificed, everyone’d probably be okay with that. 

“Go south on 235, we’ll figure out where to go next when we hit another populated area,” Puck says.

Kurt nods, his face flushed and his eyes bright. “Just tell me where when we get there,” he says, breathily.

“Maybe take a recreational break?” Puck asks, reaching across the car and pressing his palm against Kurt’s erection. “Damn, I wonder what you’d be like if you were shooting the gun.”

Kurt lets out a little whimper and presses the gas pedal down more, the station wagon flying down the road. “Maybe we’ll have to find out later,” Kurt says. 

“I think maybe I had the number of outcomes wrong,” Puck says conversationally, his fingers wrapping around Kurt’s cock as best they can through Kurt’s jeans. “There’s one I didn’t really consider before now. Want to know what it is?”

“Yes,” Kurt gasps, speeding up the station wagon even more. 

“It’s still Rob and Tyler,” Puck explains, “but instead of running off on our own, once we find the ‘boss lady’, like Sally said, we could, y’know. Join up. I mean, I was getting a thousand a month for about an hour and a half of possessing a bucket. And we’re good at this. Kidnapping, car theft, possession of an illegal firearm. Let ’em send us somewhere, and in ten years, it’ll be some scared kid getting sent to Rob and T.J.’s place.”

“Mmm, you want to be a crime boss?” Kurt asks. He takes the wagon a little too sharply around a curve, rocking them both in their seats. “If that’s what you want, I could try that out, too.”

“It’s just good to have options to think about,” Puck says, squeezing his hand. “I see a CVS sign ahead. Let’s throw out our underwear and get one of those prepaid smartphones.” 

“Okay,” Kurt says. “I feel like I should have you get some of those cigarillos, so we can look the part.”

Puck laughs. “Yeah, I thought about smoking when we were waiting on not–Jerry yesterday.” 

“Those and some good, dark sunglasses,” Kurt says. “I’ll toss the underwear while you run in?” He pulls into the CVS lot and parks towards the back.

Puck nods, handing over the underwear, and then he heads into the store. He gets a prepaid smartphone and a much cheaper prepaid only–phone–calls phone, then finds sunglasses and the cigarillos. While he’s there, he gets four of their cheap plain T-shirts and a set of clippers, plus two lighters, then heads back out to the Subaru. 

“Too bad neither of us wears contacts or glasses,” Puck remarks as he hands over one of the pairs of sunglasses to Kurt. “It’d be easy to swap out and really change our appearance, then.” He starts attacking the clamshell case for one of the two phones while he continues. “Got us some spare T-shirts but I guess they’re more like undershirts. Clippers, too.” 

“Planning to keep the military look?” Kurt asks. 

“I think it’s like three to one now in terms of ‘outcomes that result in staying Rob’,” Puck points out. “Anyway, it’d be a shame to end up going back and you be the only one who looks any different, don’t you think?”

“Hmm. Agreed,” Kurt says. “Though I’m starting to warm to the Rob outcomes more and more, in general.”

“Well, I’d rather choose it, you know?” Puck says thoughtfully. “I don’t want us to end up _having_ to run, because the bucket–fascists _and_ law enforcement are after us.”

“That’s not my first choice, but it’s still kind of, well…”

“Exciting?” Puck asks, grinning at Kurt. 

“Yes,” Kurt breathes out, starting the wagon again. “It really, really is.”

“Tell you what,” Puck offers, abandoning the clamshell case for a moment and running his hand slowly up and down Kurt’s thigh as Kurt pulls out of the CVS parking lot, “even if we go back, we could spend our weekends as Rob and Tyler.” 

“That’d be fun,” Kurt says. 

“You just like the idea of high school student by day, possible criminal mastermind by night,” Puck says with a smirk. 

"I'd be worried the high school part would get old fast," Kurt confesses. 

“That could be a problem with going back, then,” Puck says. 

"Maybe I'll get it all out of my system by the time we deliver the bucket," Kurt says, but he doesn't sound like he even believes that. 

“What’s the part you like the best?” Puck asks, going back to opening the smartphone. “’Cause if it’s the new identity part, guess we could change it up every couple of years.”

"It's kind of all of it," Kurt says. "The chase. The list. Not knowing what's in the bucket, but not opening it because it's our job to deliver it without looking or asking questions. The new identities." He takes a breath and cuts his eyes over to Puck. "You."

“Good thing,” Puck says with a grin. “You’re stuck with me now, T.J.”

"Do I need to provide a believable alibi?" Kurt asks. "I'm prepared to tell the cops about what we were really doing all weekend, if I have to." He smiles to himself. "Though maybe I should make sure I can give enough details…"

“I took you on a trip to convince you to be with me, right?” Puck says, mock-innocently. “We don’t know what else it could possibly be.” He finally gets the smartphone open and holds it up triumphantly. “Finally!”

"No, officer," Kurt says in his sweetest Pollyanna voice. "Puck was too busy making me scream his name to be involved in anything like that!"

“Oh, I’ll do that,” Puck promises. 

"We'll see," Kurt sing-songs, then in his more serious voice, "but first make sure I don't miss the turn."

“Checking,” Puck says, looking at the smartphone. “We keep going south on North Springboro for another eight miles.”

"That sounds boring. Maybe somebody will start tailing us!"

Puck laughs. “It’s still more interesting than if we were sitting in homeroom.”

"That's right, it's a school day," Kurt says. He sounds almost surprised. "Huh."

The rest of the drive to the Emerald Edge Apartment Homes is smooth; no one does tail them. When they turn onto Central Avenue, Puck spots a KMart and makes a note of it. “Just up here on the left,” he says when he finally spots the sign, and they drive around to the correct building and park. “Taking the gun and the bucket, leaving everything else in here.”

Kurt nods and follows Puck up to the apartment. The door is ajar, and as Puck goes to knock on it, he sees the red smudge above the knob. 

"Puck," Kurt whispers. "Is that—"

“Think so, yeah,” Puck agrees quietly, and he pulls the gun out of his pocket. “If we stick with this, we’re getting you one, too, and holsters and all that shit,” he says, raising the pistol as he kicks the door open. 

"I think we found Dory," Kurt says in a very small, quiet voice.

“Well.” Puck steps barely into the apartment, pulling Kurt with him so he can shut the door. “Part of Dory. Shit.” 

The carpet and walls are streaked with red, with larger, darker chunks on the sofa, coffee table, and hanging from a small a/c unit. A neat pile of what looks like teeth sit in a still–liquid pool of blood in the center of the coffee table. Kurt start to take a step, the freezes abruptly and gasps, staring down.

"Finger or toe?" Kurt asks.

“Does it matter?” Puck says, feeling a little queasy. “Should we, I don’t know. Look for an address book or something?”

Kurt nods, pressing a little closer to Puck, close enough that Puck can hear that Kurt is on the edge of hyperventilating. Puck reaches out with the hand not on the gun and takes Kurt’s, threading their fingers together. The single bathroom is easy to rule out, and then they step into the bedroom. 

“Ugh,” Puck says. “On the other hand, let’s just check out that other guy?”

As Kurt starts to nod, the doorbell rings. Kurt looks at Puck with wide eyes. The doorbell sounds again, followed by steady knocking.

"What do we do?" Kurt hisses at Puck. He has a little color back in his cheeks now.

“I’ll greet whoever it is with this, I guess,” Puck says quietly, hefting the gun. “You stay behind me.” Puck walks slowly back into the main room of the apartment, and toes the door slowly open, gun raised. 

"Hello! My name is Eld— _Jesus Christ_!" the dude at the door screams, stepping backwards and clutching at the guy with him. They're both in short sleeve white button-downs, ties, and have name tags pinned to their pockets.

"And I'd like to share with you the most amazing book," Kurt sings softly behind Puck, then dissolves into almost hysterical giggles.

"Oh God! Oh Jesus!" the first Mormon dude keeps screaming, his friend or whatever he is standing there open-mouthed and gaping.

“Get in here and shut up,” Puck says, gesturing with the gun, and then he leans forward and laughs. “Elder Johnson.” He reaches behind him and takes Kurt’s hand again. “Do you fine boys have a vehicle?” he asks them, gun still pointed towards them. 

The Mormons look around the gore-soaked room, still shrieking, albeit in muted tones. "Please don't rape us and murder us," the other Mormon pleads. "Or the other way around, either!"

“Hey, we’re a lot of things, but we’re not rapists,” Puck says, glaring at both of the Mormons. “Now, do you have a car, or not?”

"It's a Nissan," Elder Johnson né Jesus Christ says, as he starts dissolving into loud, blubbering sobs. 

“Well, what you think?” Puck asks Kurt. “We could be Mormons. Then our drivers’ licenses make even more sense.”

"Gentlemen, if you'd please step into the kitchen and remove your clothing," Kurt says pleasantly. The crying Mormon cries a little harder as he and his co-Mormon walk into the kitchen. "All the way down to your natural state, please."

“You think they really do initiate ’em?” Puck muses as the Mormons undress. “I mean, I know that site’s just porn, but still.”

"I hadn't given it that much thought, though I am sure I will now," Kurt muses. He points at Elder Sobs-a-lot. "The magic underwear, too. Polyester or no, we need authenticity." 

“Well, that’ll be… fun,” Puck says dubiously. “What should we do with ’em? Leave them here or take them somewhere else?”

Puck hears the second Mormon whisper to still–crying Elder Johnson, "Never let them change locations with you, remember?"

"I just want to go back to Idaho!" Elder Johnson sobs, pulling his undershirt over his head.

"Stop there," Kurt says. "I'd rather just go commando."

“Maybe that abandoned shopping center?” Puck says quietly to Kurt. “The one we passed on the way in. And we should leave the Subaru somewhere else.” He waves the gun again, to make sure both of the Mormons see it, then steps closer to Kurt and kisses him hard. “Told you, we’re good at this,” he murmurs against Kurt’s lips. 

"Mmhmm, we are," Kurt agrees. "Now strip so I can help you button up your Mormon costume."

Puck laughs, piling their dirty clothes together before getting a bag from the kitchen for them. “We might want them later,” he says to Kurt with a shrug before they put on the Mormon clothes, down to the name tags. “Hey, I’m Elder Rodgers now. Damn Mormons, making me lose my heritage, changing Rodriguez to Rodgers.” 

"These undershirts are so itchy," Kurt complains. "How do you stand it?" he asks the Mormons, who just look appalled and terrified, and don't answer.

“I’ll take them in the Nissan,” Puck decides, then drops his voice. “Meet me at the next exit. I programmed the phones, so we can communicate. I don’t want them to see what you’re in.”

Kurt nods, gripping the front of Puck's borrowed Mormon shirt with one hand, using the tie to pull Puck down into a rough, long kiss. As he breaks away, he says, "Don't kill them unless you absolutely have to. Oh, and boys? Making us think you'll try to call the police is a 'have to'."

“I think you’re about to have one of those ‘conversion experiences’,” Puck says to the Mormons as he herds them towards their Nissan, making them climb in the back. “You don’t remember how you got to where you are when you’re found, you don’t know when you took off your clothes or anything like that, you just remember a bright white light and the voice of God or an angel or something. Got it?”

"Yes sir," Elder Rodgers says meekly, elbowing Elder Johnson until he also says it.

Puck grins at them in what he hopes is a menacing way, then climbs into the driver’s seat and starts the Nissan up. Some kind of choir starts singing, and Puck gags a little before turning it off. The drive to the abandoned shopping center isn’t long, and there’s a nice stand of trees that makes the place where Puck parks not visible from the road or any other nearby buildings, and the abandoned shopping center itself blocks the interstate from view. 

“Time to get out. Remember, conversion experience. If no one’s found you by, hmm. Midnight?” Puck says, nodding to himself. “Yeah, midnight, then you can go try to get some help. It’s nothing personal. Good luck.” 

“Thank you,” Elder Rodgers says.

Puck snorts and gets back in the Nissan, putting the gun in the glove box before leaving the Mormons behind. At the next exit, Puck pulls in next to the Subaru in the back parking lot of the White Castle and gets out to grab the bucket. 

“They’re very grateful,” he tells Kurt. 

“That’s nice,” Kurt says. “Ready to look for… what was his name again? Hand? Is he another bodybuilder?”

“Han,” Puck says, looking over the Subaru. “Oh, hey, you got like baby wipes or something in that bag? We should wipe down the steering wheel and the door handles.”

“I do, and we should,” Kurt agrees. He hands Puck a small packet from his satchel.

Puck takes a couple and goes to do the passenger side of the car. “We should leave the keys just how they had them,” he says wryly. “Except lock the doors.”

“I topped off the tank, even,” Kurt says. “They’ll barely have anything to complain about.”

“You’re too good to ’em,” Puck says with a grin, using one of the wipes to shut the door before walking around the Subaru and giving Kurt a kiss. Kurt puts his arm around Puck’s neck, letting Puck hold some of his weight while they kiss, and then he swings away.

“Come on, Elder Rodriguez,” Kurt says, pulling Puck towards the Nissan. 

“The way I figure it, we’re disproving the existence of Mormon-God,” Puck says, tossing the keys to Kurt and getting in the Nissan. “Otherwise he’d smite down an atheist and a Jew pretending to be Mormons.”

“Maybe we shouldn’t count our chickens until _after_ we’ve delivered this bucket,” Kurt suggests. 

“Hey, like I told the Mormons, we’re not rapists or anything that actually hurts _people_ ,” Puck says. “You think ‘Han’ has the last name ‘Solo’?”

“That seems improbable,” Kurt says. “Probably he’s just German.”

“Good thing I’m Mormon now, then,” Puck says. “So which car’s better, this one or the Subaru?”

“This one’s a little more maneuverable,” Kurt says, “but less pick-up. Neither one are any kind of competition for my baby.”

“Very patriotic of you, picking the American-owned one,” Puck jokes. 

“That’s me,” Kurt deadpans. “The patriot.” He glances up in the rearview mirror. “Uh, did we pass a funeral home a little way back, perhaps?”

“No, why?” Puck says, trying to look in the side mirror. “Hearse following us?”

“At least three black cars, tinted windows, all of them with their headlights on, and it’s not raining,” Kurt says. “So either a funeral, or they’ve found us.”

“After we changed cars and everything.” Puck sighs. “Must’ve been near Dory’s. Can you lose ’em?”

Kurt sniffs derisively. “Of _course_ I can lose them.” He guns the engine, crossing the center line to pass the car in front of them. 

Puck grins. “Sure you didn’t make up the black cars so you could drive like this?” he teases. “Not that I’m complaining.”

“Check the mirror,” Kurt suggests. When Puck looks, he sees a long black car with its lights on, also moving to pass the car behind them. “Not a funeral,” Kurt adds.

“No, not a funeral,” Puck agrees. “Other two aren’t going to be able to pass yet, though,” he adds, gesturing at the semi heading north.

Kurt nods. “Hang on to something,” he suggests, suddenly jerking the wheel hard to the left, fishtailing a little as he makes a turn across the northbound lane, then another sharp right, zigzagging through small side streets. 

Puck grabs the door handle, making a mental note to wipe that down later, too, and checks behind them again. “No car back there at the moment,” he reports. 

“Let’s keep it that way,” Kurt says, veering down another street. He makes several more turns, then whips into the parking lot of an abandoned car wash, backing into the dock and killing the engine. “We’ll give it ten or fifteen.”

“Hmm, how could we pass the time?” Puck says, unbuckling and leaning across the car towards Kurt. Kurt unfastens his own seatbelt and grabs Puck by his Mormon necktie, pulling him closer. “Like this?” Puck asks, kissing Kurt hard and wrapping one arm around Kurt’s neck. 

“Mmm,” Kurt murmurs in agreement against Puck’s lips. While they kiss, his fingers trace down the buttons on the front of Puck’s shirt, catching at the waistband of the stolen Mormon pants. 

Puck holds Kurt’s head in place, pushing his tongue into Kurt’s mouth and tugging on his hair while his other hand reaches between them to curl around Kurt’s already hard cock, and Puck finds himself considering the idea of finding a car with a bench seat to steal the next time. Kurt rises up in the seat, twisting his body towards Puck while pulling Puck forward by his pants. 

“Where’re you going?” Puck mumbles, his lips against Kurt’s jaw and moving up towards Kurt’s ear. 

“Nowhere, but _you’re_ moving over here,” Kurt demands. He keeps pulling on Puck, and Puck moves into the driver’s seat as quickly as he can, then pushes the seat all the way back. 

“Better?” Puck asks Kurt, pulling him down against him. Kurt positions his legs on either side of Puck, straddling him.

“Mmhmm,” Kurt says, kissing the side of Puck’s neck and rocking his hips. 

Puck puts his hands on Kurt’s hips, thrusting up and moving his open mouth over Kurt’s neck and jaw. “Maybe you could do that riding me like a cowgirl thing now,” Puck mumbles into Kurt’s ear, “before we deliver the bucket. Just in case.” 

“Oh, yes,” Kurt says softly. “Just in case.” 

“We’ll do something equally fun after,” Puck promises, moving his hands to Kurt’s waistband. “Or more fun. We’ll keep finding things to make it exciting.”

“Yes, we will,” Kurt agrees. He puts his arms around Puck’s neck and raises up to give Puck a hard kiss. 

Puck puts his hands on the Mormon belt and slowly unfastens it, his fingers drifting over Kurt’s cock before he undoes Kurt’s Mormon pants as well. He nips at Kurt’s lower lip, then starts to unbutton Kurt’s shirt. Kurt’s hands slide down Puck’s chest to his belt, undoing it, too, and unzipping Puck’s pants. Kurt reaches inside and wraps his hand around Puck’s cock, freeing it from the pants. 

“Talk to me,” Puck says softly, reaching the next-to-last button of Kurt’s Mormon shirt and reaching to loosen the tie. “Tell me about what we’re going to do, right here.” 

“I’m going to ride you,” Kurt says into Puck’s ear. “You’re going to turn me around, and I’m going to ride you.” 

“How hard and how fast?” Puck asks, reaching back down for Kurt’s cock. “You want me to take my time, slowly put my fingers in you?” Puck pumps his hand up and down, kissing Kurt’s neck. “Or prep you just a little bit, push into you and just take you?”

“Yes, God yes, that, I want that,” Kurt says. He nips at Puck’s earlobe, then runs his tongue along the edge. “Don’t even undress anymore, just take me, just like this.”

“Pants off,” Puck says almost roughly, his hand tightening around Kurt’s cock for a moment. “Where’s your bag?” 

Kurt rises up higher on his knees and pushes his stolen Mormon pants down, turning and wriggling to get them off. “There, under the seat,” he says, nodding his head towards the passenger seat. 

Puck grabs the bag and finds the lube first, then holds up the box of condoms. “Yes or no?”

Kurt whines a little, jerking his hand up and down Puck’s cock. “Yes, this time?” he offers. 

“Up to you, T.J.,” Puck says, pushing into Kurt’s hand as he rips the box open and pulls one out. “Fuck, you’ve got a great ass.” 

“Glad you like it,” Kurt says, almost prim. “Did you want to do something with it?”

“Thought about it, yeah,” Puck says with a smirk, putting some lube on two fingers and pushing them inside Kurt. “You have any good ideas?” 

Kurt’s eyes close halfway, and he moves down onto Puck’s fingers with a soft moan, saying, “Yes. I have very good ideas.”

“Tell me,” Puck says, using his other hand and his teeth to rip the condom open. “Tell me your excellent ideas.”

“You’re going to let me turn around, then I’m going to slide down on your cock, and you can fuck me,” Kurt says. “Isn’t that a great idea?”

“Yes.” Puck pulls his fingers out and starts to roll the condom on. “You’d better turn around _right now_ , it’s so good.”

Kurt swings his leg over Puck, holding onto the steering wheel to turn so his back is towards Puck, and Puck keeps one hand on the base of his cock as Kurt slowly lowers himself. Puck’s other hand clenches on Kurt’s hip as he makes himself stay still. Kurt’s tight, even tighter than Puck was expecting, and it feels so incredible that Puck closes his eyes and leans his head against Kurt’s back. 

“Oh, fuck,” Puck whispers. “You’re fucking amazing, you know that?” 

“ _We’re_ fucking amazing,” Kurt replies, his voice a little high and strained. He keeps his grip on the steering wheel and slowly raises himself and them lowers himself back down onto Puck’s cock. “Is that good?”

“So good.” Puck moves his hand around to grab Kurt’s cock. “Want to fuck you so hard.”

Kurt moves up and down on Puck’s cock again, then lets go of the steering wheel, leaning back against Puck’s chest while still moving. “You can do that. I want that.” His head falls back against Puck’s shoulder. “Please?”

Puck shudders and leans them back against the seat as he thrusts up into Kurt, and his hand on Kurt’s hip is so tight, he knows Kurt’s going to bruise. “Don’t know which name to call you,” he confesses, his hips moving with the hand on Kurt’s cock. 

“Does it really matter?” Kurt asks. “I’m here, you’re inside me.”

“Just want to say your name,” Puck says, still pushing up hard with each thrust. “Oh, fuck, is it— it’s good for you? Really good?”

“Oh, God, yes. Can’t you feel it? Can’t you feel how hard you’re making me?” Kurt says, his words interspersed with small moans and breaths. He rocks himself on Puck’s cock, fucking himself on it, reaching a hand back to brace himself against Puck’s hip. 

“I feel you,” Puck whispers, his hand traveling from Kurt’s hips up under the special Mormon undershirt. “Feel that you’re mine. I bet your face looks incredible right now.”

“You can watch it next time,” Kurt promises. “And I can watch yours.”

“I want to feel you come,” Puck says, “hot and tight all around me, I told you— told you you had a great ass.” Puck feels like his hands and cock are going to explode from the feel of Kurt under and around them, and his next thrust is deeper and more rough. Kurt lets out a high-pitched cry, rolling his hips and moving down to meet Puck’s thrusts, and then he comes all over Puck’s hand, his own chest, and the magical Mormon undershirt. Puck shudders again as Kurt tightens all around him, and he pushes up into Kurt a final time before he comes, his arm pulling Kurt against his chest even more closely. 

Kurt leans against him, panting almost, and starts to giggle. “I think the cars are probably gone now,” he says finally.

“If we go into crime, you think we’ll have more down time?” Puck mutters against Kurt’s neck. “That’s a plus for crime, more time to fuck.” 

“Oh yes, I agree,” Kurt says. “That’s a very strong argument in favor of a life of crime. We should do that, the crime.”

“Either way, we should fuck,” Puck says, and he nips at Kurt’s skin. “Might be hard to take me back to McKinley, you’d miss at least one class a day.” 

“A tragedy,” Kurt says, sighing dramatically. 

“Mmhmm,” Puck agrees. “I mean it, you’re amazing.” 

“I mean it, too. _We_ are amazing, not just me. Both of us together,” Kurt murmurs. “That was… it’s never been like that for me before.”

“Yeah.” Puck twitches his hips, reluctant to release Kurt or pull out. “Not just post-orgasm,” he whispers in Kurt’s ear. “I love you.” 

“I love you,” Kurt replies, wiggling against Puck’s movements. 

Puck strokes Kurt’s cock slowly. “You want me to fuck you again?” he asks. “I think you do.” 

“I do,” Kurt agrees. 

“You want me to fuck you again right now?” Puck asks, rolling his hips again. “I could, pretty damn soon.”

“Mmm, I’d like that,” Kurt says. “We can find Han later.”

“Han?” Puck repeats, then groans. “Shit, I forgot about the bucket.”

“The bucket can wait,” Kurt says, arching his back against Puck.

“Oh, fuck,” Puck murmurs, putting his lips against Kurt’s ear. “You want it just like this again?” Puck asks, the small amount of resolve that they should go find Han wavering in favor of staying right where he is. “Need a fresh condom.” 

“I could spin,” Kurt offers. “Change of scenery.”

Puck groans again. “No, dammit, we should find the German dude and then fuck. Before the black car bucket–fascists find us again.”

“No, we can fuck really fast and then find him,” Kurt whines. 

Puck chuckles. “Gotta pay the bills, so to speak.”

“Fine,” Kurt sighs. “We’ll ditch the goddamn bucket. After that, though, we’re not doing anything else but each other for the next two days, got it?”

“Sounds like an excellent plan,” Puck agrees, kissing the side of Kurt’s neck. Kurt squirms in Puck's lap, making his whiny noise.

"No, the excellent plan would be figuring out how to convince you to fuck me again now," Kurt says. "This is just an acceptable secondary plan."

“I promise I’ll fuck you as many times in a row as you want, as soon as it’s gone,” Puck assures Kurt. “And you can fuck me as many times in a row as you want, too. We’ll hole up somewhere with a coffeemaker and pizza delivery.”

“ _That_ is an excellent plan,” Kurt says. 

Puck squeezes Kurt’s hips. “Move so I can kiss you again.” 

Kurt turns in Puck’s lap so his mouth can meet Puck’s in a long, deep kiss. Puck moves one hand up to Kurt’s hair, then pulls back slowly. 

“Quicker we find this guy, the quicker we can hole up,” he points out. 

“Help me find where my pants went, then, and we’ll find this guy as quickly as possible,” Kurt says. 

Puck laughs. “I think they’re back here with—” he pauses. “The, uh, Mormon books and DVDs.” 

“For authenticity, naturally,” Kurt says. He leans between the seats to retrieve the pants and the starts to pull them on without quite leaving Puck’s lap. 

“Gotta go toss the condom, T.J.,” Puck says, squeezing Kurt’s ass with both hands. “Can’t leave DNA around.” 

“Of course not,” Kurt agrees. He fastens the pants and belt, starting to button his shirt again. After he tightens the tie, he carefully readjusts the ‘Elder Johnson’ pin on his pocket. “Am I Mormon-quality tidy?”

“Sure thing,” Puck says with a grin, opening the door and sliding out before removing the condom and ditching it in a trash can. He walks back around to the passenger side and climbs in just after tucking in his Mormon shirt. “Let’s go convert some heathens or whatever, right?”

Kurt gives him a wide smile and starts the car again, weaving back through the side streets towards the highway. Once he hits the on ramp for I–75, he really guns it, passing cars in both lanes. They’ve made it about ten miles from the on ramp when red, blue, and white lights start flashing behind them.

“Oh, shit!” Kurt says. “Hide the gun, _now_! And grab a Book of Mormon!”

“Gun’s in the box,” Puck says. “You’ve got your Tyler ID and not your other one, right?” He reaches behind him and picks up a Book of Mormon and then, for good measure, opens it and grabs a pen from the center console, starting to underline. 

“Right,” Kurt says. He slowly pulls over to the shoulder, taking a deep breath and plastering on a wide-eyed, innocent-looking smile. When the officer approaches the window, Kurt rolls it down. “Good morning, officer. Are you well on this blessed day?”

The officer looks surprised, squinting in the sunlight at their name tags. “Do you boys realize how fast you were going? We’re about to be in a work zone, and there are good men working out there.” 

“Was I speeding?” Kurt asks in mock-dismay. “I’m so sorry, sir. We were in deep discussion of a particular passage in our Book, and I’m ashamed to admit I did take my eyes off the speedometer while I pontificated.” He hangs his head. “My father would be so disappointed.”

“You were,” the officer confirms. “License, please.” 

“Perhaps the Lord was using this so we could talk to the officer,” Puck says. “We were just discussing how we should, uh.” Puck looks down. “‘Remember ye the law of Moses’!” 

The officer raises his eyebrows. “Can I get your license as well, son?”

“Of course, officer,” Puck says quickly, pulling out Rob’s ID and handing it over. Kurt does the say with Tyler’s ID, beaming at the officer the whole time. 

“Rodriguez?” the officer asks, looking at both of them. “Your name tag says Rodgers.”

“They anglicized it, sir,” Puck explains. “Third generation.” 

“Let me just run these,” the officer says, walking back to his car.

“Are we going to be in the database?” Kurt whispers.

Puck shrugs. “Maybe if he doesn’t get a hit, he’ll just figure it’s ’cause we’re out of state.” 

“I hope so,” Kurt says. The officer doesn’t come back for a few minutes, but when he does, he hands both the IDs back through the window with a stern look on his face.

“Since you boys don’t have any prior speeding tickets or even a warning, I’m not going to write a ticket.” He crosses his arms. “But I think you should save the studying for when you aren’t driving. Watch your speedometer, and keep your eyes on the road,” he says sternly. 

“Thank you, sir,” Kurt says fervently. “Can we interest you in a copy of the Book of Mormon?”

Puck reaches into the back seat and picks up another copy, as well as one of the DVDs. “We have a video, too,” he says cheerfully. 

“No, thank you,” the officer says, stepping back from the car. “Drive carefully.” He walks back to his car, and Puck puts the Books of Mormon and DVD back. 

“Well, if we had to get pulled over, this was the best time,” he admits. 

“I just really wish I had the _Book of Mormon_ soundtrack with me,” Kurt laments. 

“There’s a CD, too?” Puck asks. 

“It’s a Broadway musical. We can listen to it when we’re all done,” Kurt explains. “I’ll put it on for us in between fucking, how’s that?”

“There’s a… okay,” Puck says, shaking his head. “That’s a weird thing to have a musical about.”

“It’s very funny. Kind of sweet, too,” Kurt says. “Where do I exit?”

“We get on 74 West, then exit 17,” Puck instructs, looking at the smartphone. Kurt nods, and they drive the remaining miles in comfortable silence, Kurt’s hand resting on Puck’s thigh. When they get off the interstate, Puck winces. “Damn, these are rundown.”

“We’ll do this quick, ditch the bucket, and get paid,” Kurt says firmly. He passes by the building the directions point them to, leaning down to squint at it. “I’m going to circle a few times, if you don’t mind.”

“No, I think that’s a good plan.” Puck eases the pistol slowly out of the glove box. “Let’s leave our name tags, since they’re too close to our…” he trails off. “Real names? Fake real names?”

“Good plan,” Kurt says. After a third circle around, he pulls up to the nearest parking spot near the building. He looks at the building again nervously. “I wish I had a gun, too.”

“We’ll get you one, soon,” Puck promises as he climbs out and gets the bucket. “Gotta be a gun show going on or something.” It isn’t until they’re halfway up the walk that Puck catches what he’s saying; they’re almost done with the bucket, but apparently they’re going to get Kurt a gun soon, regardless.

As they approach the door, Puck notices Kurt eyeing it cautiously. When Kurt catches Puck looking, he explains, “Checking for blood.”

Puck nods, then raps on the door with the gun. A muffled voice inside calls out, “Just a sec!” After the rattle of multiple door chains, the door opens. 

“Well, hey there,” says the short, chubby man who answers the door, dressed in what looks like a perfect replica of Han Solo’s costume from _Star Wars_. “Just gonna warn you, I’ve already found religion.”

Puck lifts the bucket up. “We’re not really looking for converts, either.”

“Oooooh,” Han says, his eyes opening to wide circles. “You’re _them_ ,” he breathes.

“Our reputation precedes us,” Kurt says, vamping a little. 

“Yeah, we’re us,” Puck agrees, shooting a quick grin at Kurt. “Sally said you could help.”

“Half-leg Sally sent you? To _me_?” Han squeaks. “Oh. Oh, geez, you guys. You know, I mean, you know I’m just a _messenger_ , right? I’m just a… I’m just a _secretary_ , you know?”

“Good!” Puck says. “Then you’ll have the delivery address for us.” 

“Oh, nooooo, I can’t give you that!” Han says, backing up into his apartment. Puck and Kurt follow him in, and Kurt kicks the door shut behind them. “La Mariposa, there’s no way she’d be okay with that, and you’ve gotta understand, I mean, you know how she is, right?”

Puck starts to lift the gun up, guessing that Han’s armed with fake Star Wars weapons, and nods at Kurt. “Tell ’em how it is.”

“Can I?” Kurt asks. He looks eager, flushed and excited again, his eyes bright.

“I think you should, definitely, yeah.” Puck nods and brings the gun up higher, pointing it vaguely in Han’s direction. 

“Oh, I would _love_ to,” Kurt says. He looks at Han and smiles widely, then brings his leg up into an impressive high kick, catching Han under the chin and sending him flying backwards into a bean bag chair patterned like the Death Star. Han starts to scramble backwards on his butt with his hands and feet, blood running down his chin.

“I can’t! I can’t!” Han screams. “You don’t understand!”

“Should’ve seen Dory’s apartment when we left,” Puck says, shaking his head mock-sadly. “I think you don’t understand, Han.”

“Dory?” Han whispers. “That was… that was _you_ guys!” He scoots backwards even faster, but Kurt steps after him, giving him another hard kick, before dropping to the ground, straddling him and planting a fist in Han’s face. After punching Han, Kurt immediately looks up at Puck with a proud smile on his face.

“Nice one, honey,” Puck says, then wonders where ‘honey’ came from, exactly. “Is he ready to tell us the address yet, you think?”

“I’m ready!” Han whines.

“I don’t think he’s really ready yet,” Kurt confides. “I think I should hit him a few more times, don’t you?” He gives Han another sharp punch to the face, sending saliva and blood flying, which just makes Kurt look even more excited. 

“I’m ready!” Han garbles. “Please! Please, I swear to the _Force_ , I’m ready!”

“I should hit him one more time,” Kurt says.

“We don’t have time to fuck just yet,” Puck says with a grin. “You should go wash your hands off while Han gives me that address.”

“I’ll find a kitchen knife and cut him a little!” Kurt says. “Or maybe he has some kind of movie replica around here!”

“Oh please! Oh, jeez, please don’t cut me, I’m just a secretary, I’m from the steno pool, oh sweet God!” Han squeals. Kurt rolls his eyes in disgust and stands, apparently just in time, since Han’s bladder appears to let go as soon as Kurt is standing.

“Ew,” Kurt mouths, then says, louder, “I’ll just go wash up a bit.” He leans over to give Puck a quick kiss. “Behave while I’m gone.”

“Always,” Puck says, then turns to Han, gun still pointed at him. “Address, now.” 

“She’s not in the city,” Han says. “I can send her a text. I can tell her you want to see her!”

“Yeah, and you will. Address,” Puck repeats. 

“I have to text her first!” Han pleads. “She’ll tell me where. There’s not a hard address for her. She doesn’t _live_ here, for Yoda’s sake!” He reaches a shaky hand slowly towards his back pocket. “It’s just a phone, I swear, it’s just a phone.”

“Uh-huh.” Puck puts both hands on the gun. “Address now, Han.”

Han starts to type furiously into the phone. He stares at it with panic in his face until it dings a few moments later. “Withamsville!” Han says. “She’ll meet you at the Wisnew iron yard in Withamsville!”

“Cleaned off?” Puck calls to Kurt. 

“The towels have Ewoks on them,” Kurt says, walking back into the room with his nose wrinkling. 

“We’re going to Withamsville,” Puck says, taking one hand off of the gun to pull Kurt to him. “Ready? We have an appointment with some coffee and pizza, after all.”

“Mmm, yes, sounds perfect,” Kurt says. He turns to Han and gives him another hard kick. “You’re a shitty secretary, by the way.”

“At least we know where he spends his salary,” Puck says dryly as they head out of the apartment. “Bye, Han.” 

“May the Force be with you!” Kurt sings out over his shoulder.

Puck doesn’t pull the door up, because he’s not sure he wants his fingerprints anywhere near Han and his Star Wars museum, and he’s just stuck the bucket in the backseat when he hears tires screeching. “That’s not good,” he says, hurrying into the passenger seat. 

“What is it?” Kurt asks from the driver’s seat. “Puck?”

“I think we’re gonna have company,” Puck says, trying to look in the side mirror. “Time to gun it.”

“You’ve got it,” Kurt agrees cheerfully, flooring the gas pedal without hesitation. “Feds or perps?”

“I think it’s bucket–fascists,” Puck says. “You want me to try to shoot them? I’m okay at laser tag, but…” he trails off. “Maybe we should spend time at a range or something.”

“Feel free,” Kurt says. “Not going to bother me a bit.” He takes a sharp turn down a narrow alley, headed towards an interstate underpass. 

“I just don’t want hit an old lady or something, is all,” Puck explains, twisting in his seat. “Oh fuck. Funeral behind ’em.” 

“Oh, fun!” Kurt chirps. “Just hang on to something, Rob. It might get a little bumpy!” 

Puck laughs and grabs the door handle again. “I fucking love you.” 

“I love you, too, but I’m working right now!” Kurt replies. He turns the wheel, spinning the Nissan in a tire-squealing 180, then driving straight back at the bucket–fascists, like he has every intention of running into them. At the last minute, the fascists jerk the wheel and go up onto the sidewalk, hitting a mailbox and stopping, and Kurt cuts their Nissan in between the bucket–fascists and the funeral procession of suits in black cars, speeding away up an empty street. 

Puck turns around to look behind them. “Aww, you gave the funeral some people to arrest. Humanitarian.” 

Kurt glances up into the rearview mirror. “That’s convenient,” he says, not slowing the car down at all. He circles a few blocks at high speed, eventually pointing them east. The road behind them remains blissfully clear as they drive towards Withamsville. 

“We never did check our transcripts out,” Puck says. “Thought about trying to ditch this car back near the Mormons, but looks like we’ll be done by then. You want to know how smart you are, Tyler?”

“Sure, you can read to me while I drive,” Kurt says. “Tell me all about us.”

Puck pulls the envelope out, bypassing the Social Security cards and birth certificates in favor of the other papers. “Okay, let’s see… oh, hey, Tyler, you’re clearly a history buff. Decent grades all around, but As in honors history courses all four years of high school.”

“Excellent. History. Anything else fun?”

“I’m apparently really good at statistics and, well, Spanish.” Puck laughs. “And shop. Let’s see what else we have.” Puck rifles through the rest of the envelope, then starts laughing. “Looks like those vacation photos were honeymoon shots.” 

“Really?” Kurt asks. “We’re married?”

“In the fine state of Iowa. We probably wouldn’t want to use it for anything but a real, state-issued ID, though,” Puck speculates. “We didn’t pay _that_ much to not–Jerry.”

“Married,” Kurt says softly. “Wow. That’s…”

“Kinda low on memories of it?” Puck says wryly. 

“Nice, I was going to say,” Kurt answers.

“Yeah, I guess I was just thinking it’d be good to remember either it or the honeymoon, one,” Puck says, reaching across the car and taking Kurt’s hand. “But hey, one day we could be bigamists.” He frowns. “Or is it still bigamy if you’re marrying the same person again?”

“No, it’s just a vow renewal, I think,” Kurt says. “Anyway, once marriage equality goes federal, we could do it on general principle.”

“Yeah, that’s true,” Puck agrees. “The rest is just pictures and our birth certificates and new socials. We really could get state-issued IDs and a passport and everything.” 

"Robert Rodriguez, is this your fancy way of saying you want to marry me?" Kurt asks. He slams the brakes to help the Nissan fishtail into a 90 degree turn, then guns it again. "We just need some rings to make it convincing."

“I already did, Tyler Johnson,” Puck says, grinning. “But I think getting you a gun is a higher priority than the rings.” 

"Can't I have both?" Kurt asks, with a pout on his face. "And what are we? Johnson-Rodriguez? Rodriguez-Johnson? One or the other with no hyphen?"

“I don’t look that Hispanic,” Puck says thoughtfully. “But Rob Johnson sounds too short or something.”

"And it would be a shame to give up your heritage." Kurt rests his hand high on Puck's inner thigh. "My vote is Rodriguez for both of us."

“Tyler Rodriguez,” Puck says slowly. “Why, are you trying to start something?” he adds, putting the envelope down and resting his right hand on top of Kurt’s. 

"T.J. Rodriguez, thank you, and yes, as soon as this is done," Kurt answers, grinning. "Apparently I missed out on my honeymoon sex. You owe me."

“I do,” Puck agrees, smirking a little. “A gun, a ring, and a week of sex. Sounds good to me.” He picks up Kurt’s hand and kisses it. “Maybe not in that order.”

"Maybe all three at the same time," Kurt responds, sounding eager. "Right or left ahead?"

“Left,” Puck answers after a quick check of the phone. “Not much farther.”

Kurt nods and turns left, taking them deeper into an industrial area, warehouses punctuated by occasional gravel or slag heaps. Kurt slows the Nissan to a crawl as they approach the address. 

"This is it," Kurt says. "Moment of truth."

“She can’t say we didn’t try to deliver the bucket,” Puck points out. “Should I take the gun?” 

"Seems smart," Kurt says. "If she disagrees, she can meet us somewhere without any smelting going on."

“True.” Puck pockets the pistol and picks up the bucket from the backseat before wrapping his arm around Kurt’s shoulder. “One way or another, things are going to change now.”

Kurt nods. "No going back, so let's just go forward."

Together, they walk deeper into the iron yard, past equipment and piles of scrap metal. They lose sight of the Nissan as they wind their way through the yard, finally coming to a clearing with a long, immaculately clean white limousine parked on the far side, with two burly bodyguards in suits, with tattoos on their hands and necks, standing outside.

"I'd say we found the place," Kurt whispers.

“Do you think that tattoos are required to work for her?” Puck whispers back. “I don’t know about visible tattoos like that.”

"Agreed. Hands and necks are outside my comfort zone," Kurt replies.

The two bodyguard–types go on alert, hands moving to the sidearms at their waists as Puck and Kurt get closer. Puck lifts the bucket silently, raising one eyebrow at the same time. The bodyguards don't make a move forward, but they don't relax either, and the back door of the limousine opens, the person inside stepping out with one long leg leading.

The first thing Kurt says when he sees the woman emerge from the limo is, "She looks like Salma Hayek."

“Don’t go leaving me for her,” Puck jokes in a whisper, squeezing Kurt’s shoulder with his hand. 

"Gentlemen," the woman says in a melodic accent that sounds Mexican. "I see you've brought me my bucket."

“You’ve been a little difficult to find,” Puck replies. “We apologize for the two-day delay in delivery.”

"Chain of command is so important," the woman—presumably La Mariposa—tsks. "And yet there's always someone who thinks he can work his way up by force, by, say, killing my delivery boy's drop point. Such a pity, is it not?"

“For him, ma’am?” Puck guesses, and he wonders if ‘Dory’ was involved in Saturday’s shootings, suddenly, and whether or not the person in that apartment was really named ‘Dory’ at all. 

"Such brave boys," La Mariposa coos at him. Her white suit is cut just a little too short by typical business standards. Her stiletto heels are cherry red patent leather. "And clever, too. So many steps between yourselves and me, yet here you are, bucket still sealed."

“That’s the rule,” Puck says with a little shrug. “Don’t open the bucket. We tried to guess a few times,” he admits, grinning at Kurt. 

La Mariposa smiles at them both with her perfectly shaped red lips and white teeth. "You're wrong, whatever you guessed," she says. "Would you like to see how wrong you were?" She raises an eyebrow, and the lefthand bodyguard–thug steps forward, reaching for the bucket.

“Sorry, T.J., no diamonds,” Puck murmurs in Kurt’s ear, then turns back to La Mariposa. “What’s the catch? For finding out, I mean?” 

"Clever," La Mariposa says again. "You've successfully evaded my own people, the henchmen of my overreaching betrayer, and two federal agencies. The ‘catch’, as you put it, is a job offer, nothing more, nothing less." 

The bodyguard reaches Puck and tries to wrest the bucket from Puck's grip, but Kurt quickly speaks up, "And what if we don't care what's in the bucket?"

La Mariposa laughs, throwing back her head. "You are the driver. Very nice," she says. "Keep this one," she adds, looking at Puck.

“Oh, I plan to,” Puck says. “I already owe him a gun, a ring, and a week at a nice hotel, though, so I hope this theoretical job offer pays pretty well?”

"To answer your driver–boyfriend's question, if you don't wish to know what's in the bucket, you'll be paid for your work and sent on your way," La Mariposa says. "Compensated, of course, for your additional difficulty along the way, with the understanding that we never met and that you will never contact me or my associates again."

“Decision time,” Puck says to Kurt, turning to face him. 

"All you have to do to agree to work for me is open the bucket," La Mariposa says. "What's your answer, gentlemen?"

Puck pulls out the list of names and slowly crumples it, before letting it drop to the ground, and he smiles at Kurt. “What do you want to do, T.J.?” he asks. 

"I think you already know the answer to that, Rob," Kurt says, smiling as he reaches for the bucket lid.


End file.
